Severed from the Sky
by deadmanRise
Summary: Seven very different souls find themselves selected for the Hunger Games. Far from home, with no guidance or comfort, they must fight for survival while struggling to retain their humanity. All OCs. Rated T for occasional violence. Non-HG readers welcome
1. Inception

**Author's note:**

**This fanfiction consists entirely of original characters. It follows seven different protagonists as they try to survive the Hunger Games. The first seven chapters will each introduce a new protagonist. Chapters will be uploaded one at a time twice a week, on Monday and Thursday. I've uploaded the first two chapters today to get things going. This fanfic assumes no knowledge of the Hunger Games universe; all the relevant details are explained within the fic, so that those who haven't read the Hunger Games can still enjoy this work. Please review the fic after reading it. Thanks, and enjoy!  
**

"Mar! Wake up! Mar, come on! It's eight o'clock! The Reaping is today, remember?"

Thirteen-year-old Mar Sessen rolled over in his bed. "So what," he mumbled. "The Careers are going, not me."

His mother put her hands on her hips. "Mar, get up out of your bed. Now." At the sound of her commanding tone, he pulled his small body out from his mess of tangled blankets, tossed his legs over the side of the bed, and stood up. "Everyone goes to the Reaping, Mar. It's mandatory," his mother reminded him. "You know that. Now get dressed. You need to look nice."

Mar sleepily started pulling on the formal clothes his mother had laid out for him.

In the days leading up to the Reaping, the entire nation of Panem was ablaze with activity, especially the parents of the twelve-to-eighteen-year-olds whom the Reaping most concerned. Even District 4, a district that placed high value on patience and tranquility, was abuzz with energy. The children themselves showed signs of anxiety, but not nearly as much as their parents. To them, the possibility of being selected seemed remote, even impossible. They chatted about it and the Hunger Games, but otherwise went about their lives as usual. Their parents, however, went to sleep each night and dreamed that their child was selected, that the nation would watch as the child they had loved and nurtured met a sudden, grisly end.

Mar met with his friends at the street corner, all dressed in the nicest clothes they owned, and together the small group began the thirty-minute trek to the huge park where the Reaping would be held. Despite its size, it had to contain every single resident of District 4 at once at the yearly Reaping, a feat it narrowly managed. Mar and his friends found themselves squeezing through a crowd in an effort to reach the section for their age group. They located it and managed to sit down just as the mayor of District 4, a hook-nosed, balding man, called for silence so he could read his speech. Mar looked up at the raised stage. He noticed officials from the Capitol, the literal and figurative center of the nation of Panem, sitting in chairs on either side of the podium that the mayor occupied. He knew they were from the Capitol because of their smooth, expensive suits and dresses and their surgically-perfected features.

"Many, many years ago," the mayor began in an even tone, "the nations of North America collapsed. The cause has long been forgotten, but the effect – the effect is remembered. The effect is that the-"

"-great nation of Panem rose from the ashes," one of Mar's friends recited in a dull tone in tandem with the mayor. "They give this exact same speech every year. Next they'll go on about all the technological advances Panem has made."

"And then they'll talk about all the difficult trials that our nation had to struggle through to get where it is today," another friend added, "from famines and winters to, of course-"

"-The Dark Days," three different voices rang out in unison.

"When the thirteen districts surrounding the Capitol rose up against it out of selfishness, and definitely _not _because it was oppressing them so it could live in luxury," the girl next to Mar said sarcastically.

"And the Capitol crushed them with its – what's the phrase they always use?"

"Technological superiority," someone else supplied.

"Right, that. And all the districts surrendered except District 13, which was destroyed completely. So now, we have the Hunger Games each year to remind us that the Capitol controls us. And because putting kids in an arena and watching them fight to the death is fun."

Despite his friends' tones of disgust, Mar could tell they weren't really taking the Reaping seriously. And that was fine. The chances of any of them having to participate in the Hunger Games were basically none. Even if one of them was selected as the male or female tribute that year, they wouldn't have to go. One of the Careers would volunteer for them.

The Career Tributes were children trained from an early age specifically for the Hunger Games. While other children went to school and did homework, they were drilled in survival, medicine, trap-making, and armed and unarmed combat. Every year, when someone was selected in District 4's Reaping, the same-gender Career Tribute who had agreed to go that year would wait until the mayor asked if anyone wanted to volunteer in the selected person's place, at which point the Career would volunteer. This practice benefited the district, as well, since the prize for winning included monthly deliveries of food and other treats to everyone in the winner's district for a year. Despite this fact, only three districts trained Careers: 1, 2, and 4. The Careers of District 4 weren't as enthusiastic about it as those from Districts 1 and 2, where being a tribute was actually considered an honor, but they could still be relied upon to take the place of whoever was chosen. Training children specifically for the Games was technically illegal, but the Capitol allowed it to continue, presumably because it made the Games much more exciting.

At last, the mayor finished his speech and everyone clapped politely. Then he produced two silver globes the size of a basketball from beneath the podium. Inside each one were thousands of small slips of paper, each bearing the name of a child from twelve to eighteen years of age. "We selected the female tribute first last year, so let's select the male first this time," the mayor suggested. To his credit, his hands were trembling. For all his enthusiasm, he really hated the Hunger Games. He unscrewed the top of the globe, stuck his hand in, withdrew a piece of paper, and squinted at it. "Mar Sessen, you have been selected as the male tribute for this year's Hunger Games. Please come to the stage now."

At this, Mar took in a shuddering breath. He knew it would be fine, he wouldn't really have to be a tribute. But it was still chilling, knowing what would have happened if his district didn't have Career Tributes. "Be right back," he said to his friends, and he stood up and made the lengthy trek to the stage.

When he arrived and climbed the stairs to stand next to the mayor, he turned and awkwardly looked out into the vast crowd. The mayor called into the microphone, "Now then, if anyone would like to volunteer in this boy's place, please stand, announce your intent, and approach the stage now."

…

_No._

_This can't be happening._

Mar's eyes desperately searched for a sign of movement, his ears searched for a shout amongst the crowd. He was so certain, so certain that someone would volunteer for him. He felt dizzy as he heard the mayor announce, "Then Mar Sessen will be this year's male tribute from District 4! Now, on to the females…" His mind raced. He wondered what had gone wrong. Every year, without fail, two Careers had volunteered. Except this one. Why? Why him? Why now?

He watched as the girl whose name was announced made her way to the stage to stand on the other side of the mayor. The mayor asked the crowd if anyone wanted to volunteer for her. Secretly, Mar hoped no one would volunteer, that he could explain this anomaly by saying that the Careers were late, and would volunteer upon arrival, and that the Capitol would bend the rules a little and allow them in, just to ensure that the Games would be exciting. He just wanted an explanation. He was confused.

"I volunteer!"

All eyes, including Mar's, affixed themselves on the girl who had risen out of her seat, and suddenly, Mar wished that he didn't have an explanation after all.

He had never met the girl that was volunteering, but he knew who she was, and he had spoken of her with his friends numerous times. No one knew her name; they all called her "the Witch". She was supposedly the best Career District 4, or any district, had ever trained. She was known to be vicious, cunning, and bloodthirsty. In fact, rumors persisted that her trainers had decided to improve the quality of her training by forcing her to fight, and actually kill, a number of Avoxes, convicted criminals sentenced by the Capitol to a life of slavery. Rumors of exactly how many people she'd killed varied widely; more conservative estimates put the number at 14. And this year, at last, the trainers had decided she was as ready as she'd ever be. Everyone had expected her to volunteer next year, the last year of her eligibility, so she would have the maximum amount of preparation and muscle growth.

Mar realized instantly why no male Careers had volunteered. It was suicide. They all believed without a doubt that the Witch would win, and that meant volunteering to compete against her amounted to throwing one's life away. Mar couldn't help feeling that they were right as he watched her stride confidently up to the stage. He saw several dark flecks in her long blonde hair that he could have sworn was dried blood.

His legs felt weak.

"And what it your name, miss?" the mayor asked when she reached the stage.

"Tarras Esmer."

"Well then, Tarras Esmer, you are this year's female tribute from District 4! Everyone, a round of applause for these two!"

A burst of forced applause rose from the crowd. The girl who had been selected scampered off the stage and back to her seat.

She could not have known how much Mar envied her as he watched her go.


	2. Insurrection

Quenn sat in the shaped foam seat, head in his hands, staring at his blurred, distorted reflection in the slightly curved metal floor of the cramped hovercraft. It all seemed so unreal, like an alien's attempt to recreate his life. Everything looked and sounded normal, but Quenn couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. It was a familiar feeling, but this time… this time, something was different. He closed his eyes. _No, this can't be real. There's no way._

It had been four days since the Reaping. The Hunger Games were about to begin.

Quenn's sense that he was in a dream was heightened by how radically different this year's Games were. In previous years, the Games had been treated not only as a competition, but a celebration. The tributes temporarily became high-ranking celebrities. They were given makeovers, interviews, and a parade. Ostensibly, this was so that individual tributes could win the favor of wealthy members of the audience, who would sponsor them by paying for items to be airdropped to their tribute of choice during the Games. In the meantime, the tributes enjoyed several days of living in luxury at the Capitol, with Avoxes at their beck and call and their favorite food available at the press of a button. Their training hadn't been publicized, but Quenn imagined that it involved experts in various fields tutoring them in the skills they'd need to survive. They had even been allowed to bring a memento of their district with them.

But everything had changed last year when the unthinkable happened.

Last year, during their period of preparation for the Games, all twenty-four tributes had banded together and rebelled against the Capitol, even the Career Tributes. They managed to obtain weapons – real ones, not the out-of-date ones used in the Hunger Games – and tried to fight their way out of the tower built to house them. The result of their insurrection was inevitable; the Capitol had once fought all thirteen districts at once and triumphed. What chance did a group of teenagers have? They were swiftly annihilated. The Capitol, seething with rage, promptly scheduled a second Reaping, with less ceremony and no pretense of celebration. The second batch of tributes was immediately thrown onto a tundra, the predetermined site of the Games that year, and the Hunger Games commenced. Watching the Games on TV was, like every year, mandatory; but the Capitol went to special lengths that year to make sure everyone was obeying the law as the tributes slowly froze to death. The message was clear: "You are at our mercy. You obey us. If you stray from the path we choose for you, you die."

This year, the Capitol wasn't as unforgiving, although many of the privileges and celebratory aspects had been stripped from the Games – permanently or temporarily, Quenn didn't know. After being selected, he and the other tributes had been transported to the Capitol, although where exactly in it was anyone's guess. The new Training Center had decent rooms and food. It wasn't much compared to residents of the Capitol, but it was luxurious to Quenn, who not only had his first full meal in five years, but had several of them in a row. Sponsorship, the tributes were told, would not be a part of the Games any longer, hence the lack of a parade and interview. Quenn's training simply consisted of a room with dummies, targets, and a pile of weapons that were likely to be found in the Hunger Games. Each tribute had his or her own training room. Training together was strictly forbidden. Quenn barely even saw his fellow tributes except at mealtimes. He knew which ones were from which districts, however, since recordings of every district's Reaping had played on the television in the train compartment on the way to the Capitol. Every district's Reaping, that is, except that of District 11, which he didn't need to see, since he'd been there.

Quenn looked at his clothes, folded haphazardly beside him. He was wearing the outfit the Gamemakers, the people in the Capitol in charge of the Hunger Games, had decided all the tributes would wear this year. It consisted of an olive green rain jacket over a plain brown shirt, plain brown pants, and dark brown boots. Quenn figured that they'd only be given a rain jacket if the site of this year's Games was a place where it rained often. His guess was the rainforest.

A cool male voice rang out, but from where, Quenn couldn't tell: "We're approaching the site of the Hunger Games. Please put on your uniform if you have not already done so. Then, leaving behind all other items, stand inside the circle engraved in the middle of the floor. When you reach the ground, your movement will be restricted for sixty seconds. Then, the Hunger Games will officially begin. Good luck!" He sighed, got up, and obediently stood in the circle. As he looked down at it, it disappeared, but he didn't fall. He floated slowly down in a beam of green light – an anti-gravity beam.

He used the opportunity to get a good look at the site of this year's Games. It was, as he had predicted, a rainforest. Interestingly, the square section of rainforest he was being beamed down to was raised above the rainforest around it like a plateau. It was most likely raised by the Capitol for the sole purpose of hosting the Hunger Games. It hadn't been raised high enough to significantly change the climate, but it was more than high enough to ensure that falling off the edge meant certain death. A stream cut across the site, flowing north to south. Quenn could see the northern cliff face from where he was, and he was astonished to see the stream flowing up the sheer rock wall. The southern cliff face probably hosted a waterfall.

After about two minutes, Quenn finally reached ground level. He'd been inserted amongst the trees. He could see a few green glows where other tributes were, like him, suspended a few inches off the ground by the anti-gravity beams until the Games officially started. He could see some objects lying on the ground a good distance away. These, he knew, were part of the Cornucopia.

Somewhere, obscured by the trees, equidistant from all the tributes, was a huge golden statue of a horn, its gaping twenty-foot-wide hollowed-out inside overflowing with weapons, food and water, medical supplies, and other necessities for surviving the Games. Scattered around it were other supplies, their usefulness decreasing the farther they were from the horn. The Cornucopia was the traditional method of distributing weapons and supplies to the tributes. Every year, a large portion of the tributes died in the initial melee that occurred around the Cornucopia. At the same time, people who abstained from it completely often died much more slowly and painfully. Quenn decided to try to grab something and run. Strangely, the thought of being torn open by another tribute didn't scare him much. He still felt vaguely like he was in a dream, and if he died, he'd simply wake up.

A loud gong reverberated through the forest, bouncing off trees, signaling the official start of the Hunger Games.

The anti-gravity beam dropped Quenn, and he took off. He darted between trees, searching the ground for something useful. He heard someone else crashing around the forest floor nearby and moved in the opposite direction to keep some distance. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of movement. Fear sent adrenaline surging through him. Dream or no dream, the possibility of being attacked scared him. He couldn't stay. He picked a direction and simply ran, ignoring the supplies on the ground.

After he had put a decent amount of distance between himself and the edge of the Cornucopia, he worked up the nerve to glance over his shoulder. He caught a glimpse of a particularly large tribute planting an axe in the skull of a fallen opponent. Quenn faced forward and increased his speed.

In the distance, five cannon shots sounded in sequence, rolling over the atmosphere with a low boom.


	3. Faction

Someone was coming.

Mora looked around in a panic, her right hand tightly gripping a two-foot segment of lead pipe, her manicured nails poking into the bottom of her palm, peering through the light rain. She had to find somewhere to hide. Her eyes found a thick, low shrub. She instantly made a beeline for it and dove inside, taking care to tuck the pipe in so no light would reflect off it and betray her presence. With her free hand, she struggled to free the locks of her brown hair that had gotten caught in the shrub's branches. As she tucked several strands back in place, she heard the sounds of voices and footsteps growing closer. She froze.

_This is a nightmare. How… when my life was so perfect, how did this happen?_

She remembered that horrible feeling in her gut during the District 8 Reaping, when her name was called out. She remembered his reaction, too. How he'd stood up immediately, knocking over his chair, and screamed, "I volunteer!" It was futile, of course. Males couldn't volunteer in place of females. There had to be one male and one female tribute from each district. As terrifying as the prospect of competing in the Hunger Games was to Mora, she could tell as they led her away that he hated the idea even more. They had given her half an hour in a dull beige room to say goodbye to family and friends. Most of that time had been spent on him. Even her family cut their goodbyes short to give them some time alone. She remembered how angry, revolted, melancholy he looked as a pair of Peacekeepers arrived to take her to the train that would bring her to the Capitol. As she left the room, he'd called out to her, "I love you, Moramym!"

It was one of the few times he used her real name, and not the shortened version she preferred. She'd called back, "I love you!" over her shoulder, but she wasn't sure if he'd heard her. She hoped he had.

And now there were people coming, and she was crouched in a bush, desperately hoping that they wouldn't see her. If they did, she'd never see him again, and he would watch her die alone. Her only hope of winning a fight was the pipe she'd grabbed from the Cornucopia. At the time, she'd thought it was something else, but she wasn't sure what.

The approaching tributes came into view and her heart sank. She'd suspected this when she heard multiple voices, since non-Careers didn't tend to team up, and especially not so early in the games. In fact, she could count herself lucky that only two of the three were Careers. She identified the other one as the boy from District 6, a lean, tough-looking young man. He was carrying a thick club, and a backpack rested on his back. It was unusual for Careers to include non-Careers in their factions, but not unheard of. The two Careers had probably had trouble finding the others for some reason, and settled on a non-Career to strengthen their group. Normally, all six Career Tributes banded together early on and spent the Games hunting down the others like a pack of wolves. Eventually, they'd be all that was left, at which point they'd turn on each other in a final, vicious melee. Entertainment for the whole family.

The two Careers in the faction that had crossed Mora's path were girls. The female tribute from District 1, a pretty sixteen-year-old with some ridiculous name Mora didn't remember, looked significantly more dangerous than she had in her glamorous dress at her Reaping. Mostly because of the short sword resting in the sheath that she'd buckled to her belt. But the other one… she radiated death, with her long, blood-flecked blonde hair and her smoke-blackened spear. It was the girl from District 4, whose reputation as a deadly combatant had even reached District 8 in the days before the Reaping. Her nickname, too, had traveled to District 8: the Witch.

"It's been a while since we've seen anyone," the girl from District 1 called over her shoulder to her comrades. "Do you think many of them have gone and camped near the stream? Do they realize how much they need water?"

"It's something to consider," the Witch responded thoughtfully. Her eyes suddenly narrowed. "Did you see that?"

Mora's heart leapt into her throat. _This is it, _she thought. _I'm going to have to fight them. _But to her surprise, the Witch pointed away from her, past the girl from District 1. "I saw movement." The girl from District 1 nodded and advanced carefully, focusing on the spot where the Witch had pointed. The boy from District 6 began to follow her, but the Witch whispered to him, "Hey."

He turned to look at her. She smoothly swung the end of her spear, slashing right through his throat. Without even waiting for his body to fall, she moved around him and charged. The other Career didn't react quickly enough; just as she turned around, the Witch drove the spear through her stomach, impaling her and pinning her to a tree. The girl from District 1 looked shocked. Blood began to leak from her open mouth. The Witch drew close to her and pulled the short sword from its sheath. As she did, she calmly explained, "I never understood why Career Tributes would team up. It doesn't make sense. It's best to eliminate the most dangerous opponents early on and take your time with the rest. If you'd realized that, you'd have had a shot at winning." The Witch cut her victim's throat with the tip of the sword. Mora gasped as blood flew off the sword and spattered a nearby bush.

The Witch whipped around instantly, and Mora knew she was in trouble.

The Witch quickly walked over the bush where Mora was hiding, raising the short sword as she did so. Mora started to panic internally; her breathing became erratic, and sweat started to loosen the grip on the pipe. The pipe. She had a chance, at least, of making it out alive. Two cannon shots sounded in the distance, loud enough for both of them to hear, but neither noticed. When the Witch approached the bush, pointing the tip of the sword into it, Mora launched herself out, swinging the pipe. She connected with the Witch's left leg, causing her to cry out in pain and fall to one knee. Mora regained her balance and ran full speed through the forest.

She didn't stop until the stitch in her side grew too painful to bear. When she finally couldn't run any more, she bent over, breathing heavily, looking back the way she'd come. She had gained a good amount of distance. From the looks of it, the Witch hadn't even bothered to attempt to pursue. Maybe her leg was badly injured. Mora took a few minutes to rest and be grateful for the light rain cooling her skin before continuing on her way.


	4. Reaction

Cirrin sat on a fallen moss-covered log, his hood covering his short black hair to keep his head warm against the rain. In one hand, he held a long stick near one end, which he was sharpening to a point with the survival knife in his other hand. He figured if he got in a fight with an armed opponent, they'd probably have the reach advantage if all he had was his knife. It wasn't balanced for throwing, so a spear was the only way to keep an opponent from getting close enough to strike him.

He'd grabbed the knife from the Cornucopia. It was fairly close to the horn in the middle, but not close enough for him to run into any Careers on the way. Still, just after grabbing it and a backpack filled with supplies, he'd suddenly found himself face-to-face with a fairly muscular boy hefting a medieval mace. As the boy swung the mace at Cirrin's head with a yell, a word flitted through his head.

_React._

He'd ducked, skirted the boy, and run off. Agility was one of the few advantages he had in the Hunger Games. His slim fourteen-year-old body didn't afford him much strength, but he could move it quickly. That, combined with his quick reflexes, made evading attacks easier. Between his agility and the reach advantage afforded by his spear, he thought he might even stand a chance if someone attacked him. Unless, of course, that someone was a Career. But he hoped he wouldn't fight anyone, Career or not, because it would most likely end either with Cirrin dying or Cirrin killing. Both thoughts chilled him, but he'd kill if he had to. He'd done it before.

It wasn't on purpose, of course. He was young, only eight or nine. His older brother had seen him sometimes come home with bruises, black eyes, and the like. His brother questioned and interrogated him until he admitted that yes, kids at school were bullying him. No, they didn't always take things from him. Sometimes they hit him just because they knew he wouldn't hit back. He was afraid.

His brother had taken it upon himself to teach Cirrin to defend himself. Their impromptu self-defense lessons mostly consisted of his brother (who was untrained in any form of fighting) pretending to strike Cirrin and coaching Cirrin on how to defend himself from each attack. "You can't attack first," he'd say. "If they hit you first, they're the bad guys. You can hit them without getting in trouble. If you hit them first, you're the bad guy. You need to wait until one of them tries to hit you, then react. Okay? When they try to hit you, react." He'd punch and kick from different angles, stopping his blows just short of Cirrin's skin. He shouted "React!" just before each fake strike, until it was drilled into Cirrin's head.

The next time the bullies confronted him, Cirrin was shaking. They took it to be a sign of weakness, of brokenness. He was shaking because he was nervous about the fight that he was sure would ensue. One of the bullies taunted him, shoved him back, and stepped forward to deliver a wide haymaker. For a split second, Cirrin seemed to see the punch coming in slow motion.

_React._

He had ducked, stepped forward, and thrown his own punch. He didn't mean to hit the bully's throat. He was aiming for the chin, where his brother had told him to aim. But he hadn't fully risen back into a standing position, and he had failed to take that into account. As a result, his fist sailed under the bully's chin and connected with his throat, collapsing his windpipe. The bully collapsed, and starting rolling back and forth, hands on his throat, his face turning blue. Cirrin and the other bullies all stared, wide-eyed, uncertain of what to do, and they watched him suffocate.

Cirrin didn't know it as he sat on that log, but he was one of only two tributes that year that had killed a human being before the Hunger Games.

He tested the spearpoint with a finger, decided it was sharp enough, and laid it aside. He opened the pack he'd collected from the Cornucopia and looked through it. He found a folded-up blanket, a hefty magnifying glass, and a guidebook on useful rainforest plants. The guidebook was in a small plastic pouch to protect it from rain. He pulled it out, skipped to the section describing edible plants, and memorized the pictures of a few that he thought he'd recognize if he saw them. With a sigh, he put the guidebook back and stood up, sticking his knife in the leather sheath he'd clipped to his belt. He hadn't gotten a good look at the entire arena while being beamed down; he'd had other things on his mind. He'd have to settle for wandering aimlessly through the forest. He sighed again, picked up his spear, chose a direction at random, and walked.


	5. Creation

The sun was setting.

Corae could tell by the way the formerly brilliant sunbeams shooting through the canopy above were starting to dim, and the way the glimpses of sky she could see had a soft orange or pink hue. The forest was starting to darken as well, making it appear more cold and unforgiving than it had before. Corae thought the forest was beautiful; its beauty, however, was a mask to make her forget the horrors that would occur and had already occurred amongst its trees. To her, the deepening of the darkness gave the impression that the forest was showing its true colors. It reminded her of District 11, her home. The amber fields at noon were as serene and beautiful as the Peacekeepers, the Capitol's brutal enforcers, were cruel. She had longed to escape. A place that was truly serene, truly beautiful on every level. That was what she craved.

Of course, she wanted like-minded people to populate that place with her. She loved her family, but they didn't think the same way she did. She was constantly chastised for having her head in the clouds when there was work to be done in the fields. She was a dreamer, but as she was consistently reminded, dreaming wouldn't get work done. Besides, she knew her dreams were impossible anyway. There was no way she could have true serenity. Not in Panem. And she couldn't escape or fight the Capitol for her freedom. She wasn't a fighter or survivalist. So naturally, she was about as unfit for the Hunger Games as she could get – for a fifteen-year-old, at least. If she'd had to participate when she was twelve, the first year of her eligibility, she might have keeled over and died from shock right there at the Reaping.

Of course, she had run away from the Cornucopia without even attempting to grab anything. Consequently, she had nothing. No weapons (although they'd have been little use anyway; the thought of actually killing another human was so abhorrent to her, she doubted she'd have ever attempted to use one), no matches, no survival equipment. Her only shelter was the thick canopy of leaves and branches above and the jacket whose hood enveloped her head. At least she kept her red hair short. It was easier to manage that way.

She considered her situation. She had no weapons or supplies and was surrounded by potential enemies. If one attacked her, the only way she'd survive was if she ran away. She wasn't all that fast, but maybe she'd get lucky. After all, she wasn't weighed down by items, as an attacker would most likely be. She didn't have any particular goal other than survival. She wasn't hungry at the time, but she could probably eat some plants or something when she was. She brushed away the thought. She supposed she could head to the stream to wash the insects off her body. That, at least, would give her something to do for the time being.

She closed her eyes and gave a forlorn sigh. As she opened them and eyed a beetle sailing through the air near her face, she wondered what her sigh had sounded like to the little insect. It was probably a powerful gust of wind, like tornados sounded to people. The beetle wasn't intelligent enough to be afraid, but if it was, it would probably avoid the fearsome giants it would see humans as. Corae stopped and shook her head rapidly. That was what her parents meant when they said her eyes were always on the clouds, even when she needed them to be on the ground. There was no time in her life that she needed her eyes on the ground more than now. She had to focus.

She noticed the chaotic crashing of the raindrops growing louder as the rain became heavier. Within minutes, the rain was coming down with enough force to sting her skin though the jacket and shirt, like a swarm of tiny bees had descended upon her. Of course, the rain drove off the actual bees along with the other insects. Corae decided to seek shelter below a spot on the canopy that was particularly thick. She wandered through the trees, scanning the air for an area where the rain was lighter. At least now she had a goal to occupy her mind.


	6. Destruction

Tarras willed herself to keep walking, hoping desperately that no one was nearby. She was doing her best to conceal her limp, but it wasn't working too well, and the pain in her left leg wasn't helping. The rain had washed away the traces of fake blood in her long, blonde hair. Overall, she no longer projected the aura of a cold killer. If anyone was watching her, they'd probably liken her to a wounded animal, despite the spear and short sword she carried. Still, she kept her face calm and emotionless. She'd committed to playing the role of the Witch, and she refused to break character. Maybe her reputation would be enough to protect her from attacks, even in her current state. Maybe not. Either way, if she showed weakness in any form, she was done for. If the enemy got the idea that they had a chance of fighting Tarras and winning, they'd be much more likely to do just that.

She mentally reassured herself that that wasn't a likely scenario. The Careers she had trained with at home told her some of the wild rumors being spread about her. They became especially wild in the days preceding each Reaping, and she guessed that they had only grown wilder in the days since she had finally volunteered. Of course, they weren't true. Yes, Tarras had killed Avoxes for training. But not fourteen, as some rumors insisted. She'd killed four of them, and it wasn't exactly her choice to do so. It was forced upon her. The trainers, almost giddy with excitement at having found someone with so much potential, were determined to make her as ready as she could possibly be; that way, she would almost be guaranteed to win when her time came. Once in a while, they gave her a weapon and had her test what she'd learned against an armed Avox.

What they didn't know was how sick Tarras felt after killing. It felt especially cruel to kill someone who was completely untrained and forced into their situation, like the Avoxes. After the third time, she tried to convince her trainers that using a live opponent prematurely was actually detrimental to her training. They, of course, voiced their concern that her heart was too soft, that she couldn't stand killing and wouldn't be able to do so when the time came. She had reassured them by insisting that in an actual life-or-death scenario, she was perfectly willing to use lethal force. Her trainers acted convinced at the time. A month later, they armed an Avox and had him attack her unexpectedly. After she snapped his neck, they believed her and stopped using Avoxes to train her.

Tarras decided to take a few minutes to rest. Her eyes were weary after hours of scouring the forest floor. After taking the time to search her dead companions' belongings and take everything that looked necessary, she had decided to focus on tracking down the girl who had hit her with the pipe. Wandering through the arena aimlessly could become disorienting and tedious after enough time, putting her in a mental state that was unfit for combat. It was best to have a clearly-defined goal to focus on. Besides, eliminating her opposition quickly would allow her to put the entire gruesome business behind her sooner. Then she had a lifetime free of need to look forward to. She'd been shown the line of mansions in District 4's Victor's Village, which were reserved for winners of the Hunger Games. She'd also been told about the other prizes, including a huge monthly allowance that would pay for all her necessities several times over with a large portion to spare. The trainers had told her what awaited winners of the Hunger Games in an attempt to motivate her. Indeed, it was a little reassuring that her momentary discomfort would lead to an easy life.

She decided to quickly check her supplies and weapons while she rested. Of course, she was well-supplied, having been able to use force to control a portion of the Cornucopia, which she then raided at her leisure. She had managed to find enough field rations, compact packages containing all the nutrients of a much larger meal, to last her over a week. Her large canteen, which she could refill on the go with rain, and a pack of hydration pills meant water wouldn't be a concern either. Hopefully, she'd be able to wrap up the Games quickly enough to not need to hunt or scavenge, although she certainly could if she had to. A few medical supplies, including antibiotics and gauze, filled the smaller pockets of her pack. There was also a small notepad and two pens. When she'd found the spear, its tip had already been blackened with smoke, reducing the chance that it would give away its owner's position by reflecting light and creating a glare that an enemy might see. The blood from her companions had partially wiped it clean, however. Maybe if she was certain there was no one around later, she would clean off the tip and make a fire just big enough to blacken it again. She put the spear aside and drew the sword. Having barely been used, it was still perfectly sharp. She had left her other companion's club on the ground. Tarras hated clubs because they were heavy and inefficient. She preferred a weapon she could use to strike swiftly and end a fight before it truly began.

After sheathing the sword and checking that her supplies were all safely back in her pack, she got up, grabbed her spear, and continued at a reduced pace. The pain in her leg had eased slightly, making it easier to conceal her limp. Her eyes continually scanned the forest floor and sometimes went as high as nearby plants and low branches, searching for a trace of her next victim.


	7. Intention

Devorac felt contented as he made himself a dinner of cheddar cheese, rye, and some stringy meat that tasted salty, but good. He ripped a large chunk out of the sandwich with his teeth and chewed. It certainly wasn't delicious, especially compared to some of the meals from home, but something about its taste pleased him. He figured it was a psychological thing. The sandwich wouldn't taste nearly as good if he was eating it at home. Here in the rainforest, during the Hunger Games, it tasted heavenly.

He knew most people wouldn't be nearly so happy to be in the Games. Even a few of the Careers who had fought for District 2 before him made it clear in the days preceding the Reaping that they considered it a duty, a job, but not a pleasure. Devorac, too, wasn't fond of competing in the Games itself. What made it something to be desired was the idea that he was helping his district.

Years ago, when he was little, Devorac's trainers had taken him on a field trip. They had taken him to some of the poorer areas of District 2. The district overall was well-off. Its average quality of life was inferior only to that of District 1 and, of course, the Capitol. But District 2 still had its fair share of the poor. His trainers had shown him run-down slums, where people lived in dingy little huts made of whatever scraps they could steal without being caught and whipped. They wore old rags that barely covered the important parts. But more pressing than anything else was their need for food. Devorac was told that they struggled daily to gather enough food to make it through the day, and starvation was a common cause of death among them. He'd shown great concern, even indignation, and asked his trainers what he could do to help. Their answer was simple: win the Hunger Games. Then every single person in the district would get a year's supply of food and even some other prizes for absolutely no cost. "You can't give them all clothes," the trainers had said. "You can't give them all shelter. But you can do better: you can keep them alive. For a full year, you can guarantee that they will not go hungry."

Since then, that experience had served to motivate him. It was what drove him to train when he wanted to rest. It was what kept him moving despite insufficient food, water, or sleep during the practice scenarios. And it was what drove him during the Hunger Games. When he ate, it was so he'd have the energy to fight. When he slept, it was so he'd be alert enough to avoid danger long enough to win. When he killed, it was to move one step closer to feeding those who couldn't feed themselves.

Devorac hefted the battleaxe he had retrieved from the Cornucopia. Its blade was wide and heavy, perfect for someone as large and muscular as him. From what he saw of the other tributes, he guessed he was the biggest tribute, despite the fact that he wasn't the oldest, being only sixteen. On the other side of the metal shaft was a spike for penetrating armor or skulls. Devorac could guess which one it would be used for more during the Hunger Games. As far as he knew, despite armor's theoretical usefulness, it had never been included in the Cornucopia. He wouldn't have picked it up anyway. It would just weigh him down, and good armor would take a few minutes to put on and take off. If he was ambushed in his sleep, it would be useless.

Without warning, a deep crimson light burst into existence, illuminating the forest. He jumped up suddenly, spilling the last bite of his sandwich on the ground, and searched for the source of the light. When he found it to be the symbol of Panem glowing on a nearby tree trunk, he relaxed. At the conclusion of each day in the Hunger Games, the faces of those who had died that day were projected for the remaining tributes to see. Usually, they were projected into the sky, but with the thick forest canopy, that was impractical. Devorac had wondered how they'd handle the projection of deaths this year. He supposed that he shouldn't be surpised at the method they'd chosen. No doubt the Capitol's scientists could bend light in ways he couldn't imagine. It wouldn't be hard for them to project images onto any individual tree – or trees, since Devorac figured every tribute would be getting their own projection.

The red Panem symbol changed into the angular, pretty face of a girl Devorac recognized with surprise as the female tribute from District 1. It wasn't often that Careers were killed on the first day. After her followed a sequence of faces: the girls from Districts 6, 7, and 9, and the boys from Districts 3, 6, and 8. Seven total deaths. So District 6 was already eliminated.

After the initial melee centered on the Cornucopia, Devorac had heard five cannon shots in the distance, each marking a tribute's death. Around midday, he'd heard two more, which accounted for the other two deaths. As far as Devorac knew, five was the lowest initial body count in Hunger Games history. He figured it was because the density of the trees provided plenty of cover and ways to maneuver away from enemies. He wondered what had happened to the other two, and whether one of them was the girl from District 1.

Devorac thought about his next move as the light faded. The projection of deaths marked the coming of night. Devorac didn't feel tired at all, since he'd gotten plenty of sleep before the Games, but he figured it was better to set up camp anyway, since he hadn't had the foresight to get a source of light from the Cornucopia. The rainforest was pitch-black at night since the canopy blocked out the moonlight, and even if he could trek the whole night without getting injured or lost, it would be slow going. Ultimately, it wasn't worth it. The next day, he would head to the edge of the arena, since he figured that was where any smart tributes would go. Having one's back to a cliff eliminated the possibility of being attacked from behind. The downside was that it also reduced the number of possible escape routes from danger, unless one was sure one was going to die.

Devorac got up and began unrolling his tent.


	8. Mission

Mar's first night in the rainforest passed in misery. He hadn't dared to try to take anything from the Cornucopia. Instead, once his feet hit the ground, he had immediately turned and run in the opposite direction. As night fell, he didn't even consider going to sleep. He couldn't help but picture another tribute creeping up to his inert body and stabbing him in the throat with a wicked grin.

Mar was terrified. He saw danger everywhere. Every tree he passed had an enemy lurking behind it. He kept imagining the various ways he could suddenly die. A tribute leaping out of a bush and stabbing him. A tribute sending an arrow through his throat from a nearby tree branch as he walked along. A snake, hidden by underbrush, lashing out and sending a lethal cocktail of poisons coursing through him. Or maybe he'd fall and break his leg, and he'd lay there for days, dying of dehydration, until some predator happened across him. Mar pictured a powerful tiger clamping its teeth down on his throat and dragging him off to feed him to its cubs. His peripheral vision began to torture him, transforming every silhouette and dark shape into a threat that was too close for him to escape. He felt weak, small, and alone, as if he'd found out one day that the entire world wanted nothing more than to kill him.

One thought in particular made him so scared, he wanted to throw up: the Witch was out there.

Throughout his school life, as he heard and repeated rumors about her, he had never imagined that he would have to actually go up against her. To him, it was impossible to even consider winning. Yet after the Reaping, during the half hour he had to say goodbye to friends and family, one of his friends had told him, "Mar, if you want to win, you have to kill the Witch. If you don't, she'll kill you. You can't rely on her to die on her own, because she won't. Do you understand, Mar? You _must_ kill the Witch before she kills you."

Mar brushed the thought away. There was no way that was happening. It was bright enough now for him to see pretty well, so he decided to look for something to eat. He had gotten enough to drink last night by putting his face under a branch that rainwater was pouring off of, but he hadn't had anything to eat. His stomach was starting to hurt from the hunger. He knew he couldn't catch anything, and couldn't prepare and cook anything he did manage to catch, so he searched for plants he could eat. Throughout his search, he moved slowly and listened for sounds signaling another tribute's approach. He couldn't shake the image of someone creeping up on him as he bent over a plant, trying to determine whether or not it was poisonous.

Mar caught sight of a plant with hairy, ridged leaves. He was running out of options. He reached out with his left hand and grabbed a leaf to stuff it in his mouth, hoping it was edible. A stinging pain shot through his hand, causing him to cry out and pull it back. The stinging didn't stop. He looked at his palm. It was already starting to get red. He was confused and upset. He didn't have any medicine for his hand, so he tried to just forget about it and continue searching for something edible. As time went on, the stinging grew worse, and his hand starting to itch as well. Soon, it was unbearable. He started to search for something to relieve the pain instead of food. He found a wet patch of ground, moved sticks and leaves out of the way, and scooped some mud onto his hand. It still stung, but it felt better. The pain was now mild enough for him to ignore. He kept looking for something to eat, making a mental note to avoid anything with hairy, ridged leaves.

After what felt to Mar like hours, he came across a tree with a thin trunk. Among its leaves were clusters of brown berries. Mar eagerly climbed the tree, trying to use his left hand as little as possible. When he was high enough, he picked a berry, examined it closely, and then popped it in his mouth. It didn't taste very good, but it was almost definitely edible. He grabbed and ate all the berries within reach, then climbed a little higher. He was more careful this time to avoid ones that weren't ripe, although he had no idea which of these berries were ripe, since he didn't know what they were supposed to look like. He quickly scanned the area for signs of others while he had a high vantage point, then climbed down. It wasn't a big meal, but it would sustain him – for a little while, at least.

The disgusting taste of the berries was still in his mouth, but he didn't care. It was the first good thing that had happened to him since the Reaping. The Reaping. That was the other thing he kept picturing. Whenever he allowed his mind to wander for long enough, it made its way back to the Reaping. It replayed the mayor calling his name, his long walk to the stage. It echoed the mayor's request for a volunteer. It made Mar revisit the silence that followed. That silence he would never forget.

That horrifying, suffocating silence.


	9. Competition

As morning went on, the temperature began to rise. Sweat began to accumulate on Cirrin's forehead and run down the sides of his face. He strained his eyes looking for small bits of orange among the green leaves of the nearby shrubs. He saw one and headed for it, but stopped suddenly when he saw that it was a small, bright orange frog. That was definitely not what he was looking for. He kept looking until finally, he found a tall shrub with what looked like orange raspberries on it. He set down his pack, pulled out his guidebook, and double-checked the berry against the picture just to be sure. Yes, it was a salmonberry. He popped it into his mouth. It tasted sweet, like candy, just as the book said it would. He rapidly began picking salmonberries and eating them, skipping ones that were tiny or off-color. When he'd eaten most of the berries he could see, he moved to the other side of the shrub, paying no attention when his foot fell on the stick.

The first sense that told him something was wrong was touch. The stick felt softer than a stick should be.

The second sense that told him something was wrong was hearing. A sharp hiss rose from the ground to meet his ears.

The third sense that told him something was wrong was sight. He looked down and saw something moving underneath his foot.

He realized what it was as the snake drew its head back to bite his ankle.

_React._

He jumped, using all his leg strength to launch himself away. It was barely enough. The snake missed, its head deflecting off the tip of Cirrin's boot. Cirrin raised his spear and got a good look at the snake. It was reddish-brown with dark brown spots down its back. Its head was raised, and it was hissing at him. It looked dangerous, and it still wanted to bite him. Cirrin considered running, but he had no idea how fast snakes were. It wasn't worth the risk of being bitten in the ankle.

As he considered how he might make his escape, the snake lunged. Cirrin moved, smacking its head aside with the tip of his homemade spear. Not three seconds later, it lunged again, prompting Cirrin to smack it aside again. It was relentless. There was no way out but to kill it, he decided. But he had no idea how to safely do so. He could tell that its lunging range was longer than his spear. Cirrin wasn't close enough to stab it, but it was still lunging at him, and from the looks of it, it could reach him if he didn't knock it away.

It lunged again, and Cirrin stepped out of the way. Another lunge prompted Cirrin to smack its head once more. As he desperately tried to keep the snake away, his mind raced. What could he do? Getting closer would put him in range to attack, but it would decrease the amount of time he'd have to react when it struck. He thought about it for a minute, parrying two more lunges as he did so, and decided that he needed to end this little competition quickly. The longer it went on, the more likely it became that the snake would manage to bite him. He watched the snake carefully and took a cautious step forward. The snake lashed out, causing him to step back to get his leg out of the way. If he hadn't, it would have gotten him. Moving within range was too great a risk.

His mind raced, trying to come up with a way to kill the snake with minimal risk to himself. As he thought, it struck every few seconds, and he smacked its head aside each time. He tried pointing the spear at the snake's head as it lunged, driving the weapon through its skull with its own momentum. Each time, the snake narrowly missed the spear. After a few tries, he realized just how difficult accomplishing that feat would be. Hitting it with a horizontal swing was much easier then placing the spear tip exactly where its head would be. As he tried to think of something else, he moved his spear tip to one side to prepare to swing it. The snake's head followed the spear point. Cirrin realized that the snake thought the spear was part of his body. Or another living thing. It didn't matter. Cirrin knew what to do now.

He held out his spear with one hand, getting the snake to look almost directly to his right. Then he dropped it. The snake lunged and bit the spear as it fell, sinking its fangs into the wood. Cirrin quickly drew his knife and dove on top of it. With his free hand, he grabbed the snake's head, keeping its mouth clamped firmly on the stick. He drove the knife into the snake just below its head, killing it instantly.

He pulled out the knife and took a minute to rest before pulling the snake off his spear. He tried to decide what to do with it. He had been searching for food, and there was no point letting the snake go to waste. Next, he considered whether or not to cook it. A fire would take a while, and it would attract attention. Many a tribute in previous years had made a fire, only to find too late that it was practically a smoke signal inviting the group of Careers to come kill the fire-starter. Cirrin had heard that snakes were actually edible raw. He decided to try it after opening up the snake and stripping off the scales. The meat was rubbery and disgusting, but he ate it all, knowing how much the protein would help. After the first few bites, he ate a few salmonberries with each piece of snake meat to make the taste bearable. When he was finished, he collected his things and moved on.


	10. Decision

The rain's incessant crashing dwindled to a soft pitter-patter. Cheerful birdcalls echoed through the forest, reminding Corae of home. Strangely, she hadn't thought much of birdcalls back in District 11. But here, it felt like they were trying to tell her something important – something she'd forgotten long ago. Like a prophetic dream that she had failed to understand the significance of. Corae wondered how many birds the towering trees housed. The birds didn't have to live under an oppressive regime or endure misery and stress. At the same time, they lacked understanding and appreciation of the things Corae thought most valuable – love, friendship, emotion. She wondered which were happier with their lives: birds or people.

At home, if such inspiration had struck her, she would have put her thoughts on paper. She was a poet at heart. Now, however, all she could think was, _Well, the birds are certainly happier than everyone here in the Hunger Games, unless the Careers really enjoy this kind of thing. They probably do. _She imagined a family of Capitol citizens, settled snugly in their house, blankets over their legs, bowls of food in front of them, gathered in front of one of the family televisions, watching her suffer. She knew there were cameras everywhere. She didn't know how or where exactly, but she knew they were watching. The Hunger Games were mandatory viewing, of course, but they weren't broadcast live very often. Usually, a few hours each evening would be scheduled for viewing. The Capitol would broadcast clips of the more notable happenings of the day. If anything interesting began during that time, however, they would quickly switch over to live feed and show Panem the event as it occurred. Corae had watched more than one person die on live TV. This year, it might be her dying as millions of citizens watched from miles away.

Corae hated the fact that a rainforest had been chosen for the sight of that year's Hunger Games. Not because she hated the rainforest – the opposite, in fact. She loved nature, and had always wanted to visit a forest. She also loved rain. It was her favorite type of weather. So naturally, Corae had always wanted to go on vacation to a rainforest, although she knew her family would never be able to afford it. That dream was now thoroughly dead. Corae knew that even if she somehow won, she could never love the rainforest ever again. She might even come to hate rain, although she hoped not. It was her favorite subject to write about. It was peace in a world of conflict and struggle.

The rain had slowly faded into a light drizzle, then vanished altogether. Corae raised her eyes to the sky. She could see scraps of blue through gaps in the canopy. It was strange to her to think that the sky she was looking at was the exact same sky she'd always seen when she looked up. She wondered how many people in District 11 were looking at that same sky. A puffy white cloud floated lazily past a large gap, unaware of the troubles beneath it. Up there, miles away from the ground, the problems that plagued the Earth couldn't touch it. Corae envied it. It had no idea what sorrows unfolded beneath, and it had no reason to know. It was invulnerable.

Corae suddenly made a decision.

_I'm not going to participate in this nightmare. I don't care what they do or say. I'm not going to kill a single human being during my time in the Hunger Games. _

It felt good to make that vow. Somehow, her burden seemed a little lighter. She acknowledged that her pathetic little act of rebellion wouldn't do much, if anything. It was important to her, though. She wanted everyone to know that she wouldn't follow the Capitol's instructions. Her thoughts floated back to the group of tributes that had rebelled last year, taking up arms against the oppressors. She knew without a doubt that if she had been selected that year, she would have been among them, terrified, tears running down her face as she unloaded an assault rifle at the nearest Peacekeeper. She would have died there, perhaps painfully.

And she would have been fine with that.


	11. Precipitation

By midday, the rain was coming down heavily again, pounding the forest below. Devorac ignored it. He had made good progress so far. He wasn't sure how long it would take him to reach the edge of the Hunger Games zone, but it couldn't have been much longer. His day had been largely uneventful.

As he walked, he thought he saw a glimpse of red in his peripheral vision. He stopped. Yes, there was a blob of color among the brown and green of the forest. It was near the base of a tree in front of him and to his right. He froze and listened attentively. He couldn't hear anything that would indicate danger. He wasn't even sure it was a person, but he didn't know what else it could be. He could try sneaking up to take the enemy by surprise, but stealth wasn't his thing. He would focus on speed instead.

He charged, crashing through the forest toward the colorful shape. When he got close enough to see what it was, he ground to a halt. He wasn't sure why, since he knew there was a person there. He could see a pair of boots beneath the red umbrella held at an angle away from the tree. The smart thing to do would have been to cleave right though the umbrella and whoever was underneath, but he didn't. _Maybe the person is dead or sleeping_, he told himself. But it wasn't likely, since the umbrella wasn't leaning on anything. It was being held above the ground.

The umbrella moved to one side, and Devorac found a girl sitting against the tree, looking up at him. She looked to be a year or two younger than him. She had long, wavy black hair and beautiful green eyes that caught Devorac off-guard. When she spoke, she did so just loudly enough for Devorac to hear her clearly over the crashing rain.

"Are you going to kill me?"

Devorac hesitated for only a second. "Yes."

She didn't flinch or look away. She said simply, "Well, it was going to happen sooner or later." She stood up and held out the wide umbrella so that it protected both of them from the rain. "I'm going to fight back, you know. Do you understand that?" He nodded, but didn't move otherwise. She held out her hand for a handshake. "My name is Alamera."

He stared at her hand for a few seconds, unsure of what to do. He quickly scanned her visually for any signs of a concealed weapon. She really seemed to be unarmed. He supposed she might have a concealed knife, but if she was planning on fighting for her survival, she would have reacted when he came crashing toward her. He didn't think it likely that her handshake offer was a trap. He reached out and grasped her hand briefly. "Devorac."

"So you're tangled up in these Games, too, huh? And by the looks of it, you're doing pretty well. Are you a Career?" He nodded. "I knew it. Which district?"

"Two."

"Oh, you're from the district right next to mine. I'm from District 3. The electronics capital of Panem. Our vast array of advanced technologies doesn't seem to be doing much for me now, does it? For all society's advances, I'm back where people were thousands of years ago. And nothing my parents have attained for themselves can change that." She was looking out into the forest as she spoke. Her eyes had a misty, faraway look. "You know, when I wished my life were different, this isn't quite what I had in mind." She looked him in the eye and gave a small smile. "What about you? Everyone has a story. What's yours?"

Devorac wasn't sure what to say. He shrugged, silently wondering if he was really going to exchange life stories with the girl he was about to kill. "Not much to tell, really."

"Oh, you must have something. Everyone has a story," she pressed him.

Devorac shrugged again. "Just training, mostly. For this. Learning all I could about survival, combat, and whatever else the trainers thought would be useful."

"That's it? You must have had free time. How did you use it? What did you enjoy doing?"

Devorac was about to shrug a third time when he came up with an answer to her second question. "Sleeping."

He was surprised when she actually laughed out loud. "Oh, and eating too, I bet! I mean interests. Hobbies. Not things you have to do. Things you do because you like to."

"Eating" had been the next thing Devorac was planning to say. He tried to think of something he really enjoyed. Truthfully, there wasn't much. His trainers had planned free time for him to keep him stress-free and sharp, but he wasn't sure what to do with it most days. He usually took a hike, since it gave him something to do and gave him ample exercise. Then he remembered the few times his trainers had given him puzzles to test his mental acuity. He had enjoyed that. "Puzzles," he told Alamera.

"You must be smart, then, if you like puzzles. I've never been good them, truthfully," she reflected.

Devorac decided to ask the question that had been on his mind since the beginning of their conversation. "Why are you just talking to me? About everyday things? We're going to fight to the death, you know. And I'm going to kill you. I told you that."

"I don't believe in hatred," she said simply. "Besides, it's not like I really have a chance at winning, although that won't stop me from trying. No offense."

"Don't you value your life at all? If you can't win in a fight, you could have run. When I saw you, you weren't trying to hide or avoid danger at all, were you?"

For a few seconds, her only reply was a shrug. Then she answered, "Everyone values their lives, even you. Am I wrong? I'm no different. But here you are, not running away. So neither am I."

"I'm not fighting for me. I'm fighting to win the food for my district. I want all the poor people there to eat well for once. That's why I'm fighting." For some reason, he felt that it was important to tell her that.

"Well, that's good," she said honestly. "That makes what's going to happen easier for me to accept." She lowered her umbrella and dropped it. The rain immediately assaulted her, making her hair stick to her scalp, neck, and back. As Devorac watched, she picked up a sizeable rock that was nearby. "Shall we begin?" He paused for a second, then nodded. She ran straight toward him, lifting the rock to hit him with it. Before she was close enough to do so, Devorac raised his axe and thrust downward, shaft first. The spike on the end of the shaft drove through her skull and pierced her brain, killing her instantly. He stepped to the side as her momentum carried her body forward. She fell, but her upper half was held up by the spike on Devorac's axe. He placed his free hand on her head and pulled the spike out, letting her fall facedown. In the distance, a cannon sounded, signaling her death. He wiped the blood and bits of brain off the spike using nearby leaves. He considered using some of his water to clean it better, but decided against it; the heavy rain would soon wash off the rest of the gore. When he'd moved on, a hovercraft far above sent down a green beam, lifting her corpse out of the forest.

As he continued toward the edge of the arena, he couldn't get Alamera off his mind. She was… strange. Somehow, he wondered if there was some way he could have accomplished his goal without killing her. He shook his head, knowing it was impossible. _I couldn't have let her live. By refusing to kill her, I'd be slitting the throats of all the people in District 2 who will starve if I don't win. It was her throat or theirs._

_Her throat or theirs._


	12. Hallucination

Quenn stopped to try to brush the spiders off his legs. The sounds of the forest, the rising birdcalls and rush of wind-blown branches, seemed far away. Even after witnessing a taste of the carnage at the Cornucopia and feeling the exertion of running for his life, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was in a dream. Everything seemed slightly unreal. _Because it _is _unreal_, he told himself.

He'd had plenty of hallucinations before. Quenn had been diagnosed with schizophrenia at an early age. Most days, he heard voices at some point, always whispering just to the left or right of his field of vision. Sometimes, he also saw or felt something that no one else did. Normally, he could simply ignore it. It had taken a long time to accept that his hallucinations were a product of his imagination. They felt just as real as a normal person talking. After a period of questioning reality itself, he learned to just ignore his hallucinations. There was medicine to get rid of them, and the local healer even stocked a small amount. However, his parents couldn't afford the medicine. It was all they could do to put food on the table.

Back in District 11, his father worked on a wealthier man's farm. However, during his childhood, Quenn's father was seriously injured after talking back to a Peacekeeper, one of the Capitol's enforcers; the injury left him with a permanent limp. Because he couldn't work as quickly as other workers, his pay was reduced. As a result, he only made enough to support two people. His family consisted of four people. Quenn's mother was a maid by profession, but the fact that she was schizophrenic made it hard for her to find work. She had learned to control it; years later, she would help her son do the same. But mother and son alike occasionally had moments when the hallucinations became vivid and severe. Unfortunately for Quenn's mother, on two occasions, that moment came when she was on the job. Things were destroyed. Once, a child was injured. Word of mouth spread quickly, and she soon found that no one would hire her. As a result, Quenn was forced to take two tesserae each year to help feed his family.

Tesserae could only be taken by children of Hunger Games age. It meant that in exchange for a year's worth of grain for one person, the child's name would be entered in the Reaping an additional time. Entries in the Reaping were accumulative. Quenn was fifteen, so with an entry added each year of eligibility, there would have been four slips of paper with his name in that silver globe if he hadn't taken any tesserae. After taking two tesserae each year, there were twelve.

Despite the increased odds, it was still hard to accept that he had been chosen to be a tribute. As he had wandered through the forest, he had slowly convinced himself that everything – the Games, the forest, the other tributes – were a hallucination. _But I've never had a hallucination this vivid, or this complex, or this long_, part of him protested. But another part countered, _There's a first time for everything._ He accepted the latter viewpoint. He didn't want to believe that all this was real. He was scared, but not as scared as he'd have been if he fully believed he was actually in the Hunger Games. Still, he wanted the hallucination to end. In pursuit of that goal, he'd spent an entire day going to sleep and waking up. Normally, when he went to sleep while hallucinating, the hallucination was over when he woke up. But again, he insisted to himself, _There's a first time for everything._

As he listened to the noises of the forest, mentally comparing them to other sounds he'd hallucinated before, he heard something else. It sounded like someone walking. The sound was so real that for a second, he forgot about his conclusion that the Games weren't really happening. He looked around and found a thick bush near a tree. He quietly made his way to it, pushed aside the branches, and crawled inside, allowing it to camouflage him. Even if it was a hallucination, he tended to panic when something really bad happened, like being attacked. That was how nearby objects got destroyed. He figured that by hiding, he'd keep himself calm and make things easier for his family, who were no doubt trying to bring him back to reality.

He caught sight of a boy dressed identically to him. He was a bit small, but Quenn couldn't tell much more about him because he was faced away from Quenn. As Quenn watched, he caught movement in his peripheral vision. It was another tribute. At the base of a tree, the boy bent over and vomited. A sign of sickness, of weakness. Quenn glanced over at the other tribute, who was beginning to emerge from hiding. The boy was about to be attacked.

_It's not real, it's not real, it's not real…_ But Quenn still clenched his jaw tightly as he watched.


	13. Execution

Tarras squatted near the ground, looking closely at a bootprint and comparing its pattern to a sketch on her notepad. The sketch represented the print left by the girl who had hit Tarras on the leg – or at least, Tarras thought it did. She couldn't be sure, since she hadn't actually seen the bottom of the girl's boots. She presumed each tribute's boots had a slightly different pattern, since her pair didn't match up with the prints. The Capitol had probably done it as a reward for particularly attentive trackers. The bootprints she'd seen with the same pattern all had about the same size and depth, which supported her theory. Either way, whoever had left the prints was relatively light, but probably had long legs and was a fast runner. From the glimpse Tarras had seen of her, her quarry matched that description.

As Tarras examined the bootprint, she heard a faint sound that wasn't immediately familiar to her. She closed her eyes and concentrated, then identified it: someone was fighting up ahead. She looked around and marked the bootprint by thrusting a nearby stick into the ground beside it. Then she crouched and moved stealthily toward the sound, transitioning from tree to tree to reduce her visibility. When she got close enough to see the source of the noise, she went to one knee and watched.

The ground in front of her sloped downward. At the bottom, a boy and a girl were locked in a life-and-death struggle. The girl, who Tarras identified as the female tribute from District 5, had a claymore, a two-handed broadsword, which she swung desperately to keep her opponent at bay. Her opponent, who Tarras couldn't immediately place, had a machete. He was jumping back and forth, trying to find a hole in her defense so he could get close enough to slash her. Tarras focused her eyes on him, trying to remember which district he was from. His head was shaved, but all of the tributes had had their hair last time she saw them. He must have shaved his head not long before the Games began. She got a clear glimpse of his face and immediately pictured him with wavy blond hair, completing her mental image of the boy for District 7. While the look on the girl's face conveyed fear, his glare was cold, hard, and determined.

The girl was sweating, she had her mouth open, and when she wasn't swinging the sword, she held it lower than a good defense demanded. The boy, on the other hand, still had his mouth closed and his weapon high. Clearly, he benefited from higher fitness and a lighter weapon. He was also no fool: Tarras saw him repeatedly dodge the claymore with rapid movements, making no attempt to block it. Tarras knew from experience that blocking such a heavy weapon was a good way to get injured. As she watched, he took a step back, placing himself just out of range as the tip of the claymore sailed by. He then stepped forward, causing his opponent to step back and raise the claymore as quickly as she could. Tarras noticed a slight grin on his face. He tensed up as if he was going to charge, but feinted at the last second. The girl fell for it and swung with all her might, leaving a wide opening. He rushed toward her and struck with the machete.

The blade opened a long, deep gash stretching diagonally across her torso. The force of the impact also knocked her down. The back of her head hit the ground, dazing her temporarily, as if the gash wasn't enough to ensure she wouldn't get back up. The boy stood over her and raised the machete to finish her off. Suddenly, he looked up, directly at Tarras. He had caught a glimpse of her in his peripheral vision. She immediately stood, readying herself to fight, but he turned and sprinted away, grabbing a black messenger bag on the ground as he ran. His reaction surprised her. _My reputation must be more fearsome than I thought, _she realized.

She tried to walk down the slope, but ended up sliding down on her feet. She approached the bleeding girl on the ground, who was still alive. She was almost certainly in terrible pain. Tarras decided to finish her off as an act of mercy. Doing so wouldn't have any negative consequences for her anyway. She pointed the tip of her spear at the girl's throat. "Wait," the girl said weakly. "Don't… please don't kill me. I don't want to die. Not here. Not like this. Please don't kill me. I'll give you all my supplies." Tears started to leak from her eyes.

Tarras looked her in the eye, refusing to show any emotion. The girl's teary begging did nothing to change her stoic demeanor. When the girl realized Tarras wasn't going to spare her, the look on her face first conveyed pain and fear, then relaxed as she accepted her impending death. She closed her eyes, sighed, and lowered her head to the ground. Tarras drove the spear through her throat, killing her instantly. As she did so, Tarras felt an uncomfortable jolt through her body. It was like the recoil that guns used to have.

Tarras searched the girl's pack and didn't visibly react as she heard the cannon in the distance. There was a length of rope and a meal's worth of food, but nothing else worth taking. She stuffed the rope and food into her pack and backtracked to the bootprint she had marked so she could continue tracking down her prey.


	14. Suspension

The forest was growing darker, signaling the coming of night. Mora's second day in the Hunger Games had passed without incident. She trudged through the forest, keeping her eyes on the ground and taking care not to trip on anything. The forest floor at night was darker than any other place she'd ever been. Soon, she knew, she wouldn't be able to see her hands in front of her face. She had to find somewhere safe to sleep before then.

She had come to regret hitting the Witch in the leg. She mentally berated herself: _On the first day of the Hunger Games, the _very first day_, I manage to cross the most deadly tribute in the Games! Oh, how brilliant of me! She'll want revenge for sure! _Mora was almost certain that the Witch was going to try to track her down. Her primary concern was keeping a large distance between the Witch and herself; along the way, she tried to think of a safe place to hide. She couldn't come up with anything. And even if she did, she couldn't be sure the Witch wouldn't track her down anyway. She had no idea what any of the other tributes were capable of. Her only solace was that the Witch probably wouldn't be able to move at night any better than she could. That solace disappeared when she remembered that in past years, a pair of night-vision glasses was usually included in the Cornucopia, and if this year was the same, there was a good chance they ended up in the Witch's hands.

In such a short amount of time, she had changed drastically. Before the Games, her thoughts had never been so morbid. She had constantly gossiped and joked with friends, and she loved nothing more than finding ways to have fun no matter where she was or what she was doing. She remembered a time when, during a sleepover, one of her friends had accidentally blurted out a dumb comment about wanting to go to the rainforest to see a live penguin. They had had a good laugh, and the friend never lived it down. Since then, it had become an inside joke of theirs. Mora wished those days would return, and that she could worry about looking for penguins rather than tributes looking for her. There was no joke or light-hearted comment that could improve her situation or mood.

Mora decided to use the little light remaining to climb a tree and find a good branch to sleep in. It was safer that way. She'd be secure from both predators prowling the forest floor and tributes wandering by. It only took her a few minutes to find a tree with branches low enough for her to climb onto. To her surprise, she ascended up the branches with ease. When she was high enough, she started looking for a suitable place to sleep. She soon found a spot where a branch forked into two smaller branches, making a Y. She lay across the forking branches, trying to find a position that was comfortable and stable. Her spot ranked highly in neither area, but it was the best she could find. She was about to try to get some sleep when she saw a red light. It startled her so much she nearly fell.

The symbol of Panem had been projected the trunk of the tree she was in. It was followed by the portraits of those who had died the second day. There were only two, both girls: one from District 3, the other from District 5. The anthem of Panem closed out the short projection. Mora tried not to think about the two lives that had suddenly ended that day. She tried even harder not to think about her portrait eventually being projected to the remaining tributes.

The branch was extremely uncomfortable, and she couldn't get the images of the dead girls out of her head, but eventually, she managed to fall asleep. Solace came in the form of a dream. She was wandering through her forest when _he_ showed up. "I'm here to take you home," he informed her happily, holding out his hand for her to take. Mora ran to him, tears of joy clouding her vision. She was fairly close to him when she saw something. Behind him, the silhouette of a girl with long, blonde hair, pointed a wicked-looking spear at his back. Mora lunged in an attempt to push him out of harm's way.

She woke with a start to discover that for some reason, she had a strange sense of weightlessness. Immediately, her confused brain tried to figure out what was going on. She figured it out an instant before she impacted the ground. The lower right portion of her back landed on something hard, causing her to cry out in pain. It felt like someone had set her back on fire and was now electrocuting it. Much as she wanted to keep crying out, she forced herself to be silent when she heard the distinct sound of a boot on a layer of decaying leaves and sticks. She looked where the sound had come from, but in the darkness, she couldn't see anything. Then she caught movement as the sound repeated itself. There was no doubt. It was a tribute.

The tribute was walking toward her. It was all she could do to keep herself from making any noise. Terrified questions swarmed her mind: _Is it the Witch? Did the person hear me? Should I stay still or run? If I stay still, is the person going to step on me and figure out I'm here? Do they already know? _None of her questions had answers. She decided to remain still, tightly shutting her eyes and clenching her teeth to try to avoid screaming. Suddenly, the sounds of her breathing were loud enough to her to be explosions; she began taking in shallow breaths.

The tribute stopped just short of her prone body. Mora felt a boot step on her hair. She held her breath altogether. If the tribute's foot moved mere inches to the right, her presence would be revealed. For a few agonizing minutes, the tribute stood there while Mora silently willed him or her to leave. Then the boot rose again. As it did, the sole brushed her face. A scream began to arise in her throat, but was quickly stifled before it could become audible. _This is it. I'm going to die here. _But she heard the sound of footsteps growing fainter as the tribute moved on. After a minute or two, she breathed a sigh of relief, but didn't get up. She rolled over so her pain-filled back wasn't touching the ground and lay there, motionless.


	15. Direction

Far away from the rainforest, the sun began to rise. As soon as Devorac deemed the forest to be bright enough to navigate, he packed up his tent and disassembled the traps and snares he'd set to protect himself at night. He wasn't sure how much farther it was to the edge of the Hunger Games zone. He decided to take a look from a higher vantage point and see if he could estimate how long it would take to reach his destination. He found a tree with plenty of thick branches that looked perfect for climbing. It wasn't a good idea to leave all his gear and his axe unprotected, so he set up two snares nearby before putting down his belongings and hoisting himself onto the lowest branch.

It took a while to climb as high as he could go. He'd gotten lucky; the tree he was in was taller than the ones surrounding it. As a result, he could look over the canopy below. The sea of leaves abruptly ended to the north, signifying that he wasn't far from the boundary. But that wasn't what caught his eye. A thin column of gray smoke drifted skyward through the canopy south of his position. Someone below had built a fire. Devorac wasn't surprised. Having watched the Games for years, every tribute should have known better; but actually being in the arena affected a person's psyche more than anyone anticipated. After a few days of living in the wilderness, weaker minds began to starve for a creature comfort, something familiar that reminded them of home – like a shower, or a bed, or a warm meal. Or perhaps the person knew that the Careers hadn't banded together, and figured that no one else would come for them. Or maybe they counted on the dense trees hiding the smoke from others' view. No matter the reason, setting that fire was a mistake.

Devorac judged the distance to be a little more than a day's trek from where he was. The fire-starter, whoever it was, would almost definitely have moved on by the time he got there. However, he noticed a thin, winding gap in the canopy that passed near the column of smoke. It was the stream, which, if he remembered correctly, flowed north to south. Most streams flowed north to south, so he was fairly confident that this was the case. If he built a raft and took the stream, he could make good time. He started climbing down quickly, reaching the ground in half the time it took him to ascend.

After disarming the snares, he set to work on building the raft. He cut down several thin trees and made 6 ten-foot-long logs. He used branches to make slightly shorter crosspieces. He then put the logs side-by-side and cut two notches on each, making sure that the notches lined up. Finally, he put the crosspieces in the notches and secured them in place with a strong vine he'd found so he didn't have to use any of his rope. It took him about forty-five minutes. The result was a raft that was small and rough-looking, but functional. He cut down another branch to steer with and dragged it and his raft to the stream.

After pushing the raft into the water to make sure it floated, he climbed aboard with his pack and his axe. The raft groaned and sank lower into the water, but stayed afloat. Devorac used the branch to point the raft directly downstream and let the current carry him. He estimated that at his current speed, he'd reach the fire in several hours. He sat down, opened up his pack, and pulled out some salted beef cubes and a banana. He didn't relax, though. He made sure his axe was nearby and kept an eye on the passing trees. If someone attacked with a ranged weapon as he passed by, he'd have to escape, possibly ditching his pack in process. He had filled a small bag from the Cornucopia with everything he felt was vital to his survival and tied it to the top of his pack. If he needed to flee, he could pull a string, undoing the knot, and take the bag with him. He popped another beef cube in his mouth and watched the forest sail by.


	16. Gyration

The towering forest surrounded Cirrin, making him feel like an ant. His mouth was incredibly dry, and he felt as though his body was being slowly cooked. He also felt nauseous. He wasn't sure if he was sick or dehydrated or both. Either way, he decided it was probably a good idea to get a good, long drink the next time he had the opportunity. Unfortunately, he wasn't sure when that would be. The rain had temporarily stopped. Cirrin wished his pack had contained a canteen that he could use to collect water when it rained.

Cirrin suddenly got a sickening feeling that told him he was about to retch. He stopped walking and vomited at the base of the tree. It felt horrible. He wished he'd had the sense to save some salmonberries for later, because the taste in his mouth was disgusting and he needed something to get rid of it. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. "This sucks," he said out loud to himself.

"More than you know."

Cirrin whipped his head around, looking for the tribute whose voice he'd heard. Standing several yards to his right was the same mace-wielding boy that he had dodged at the Cornucopia. He was the male tribute from District 5. Cirrin's grip tightened on his makeshift spear. For a few seconds, they wordlessly stared each other down; then the boy tensed up before charging directly at Cirrin, swinging his mace. Cirrin ducked to one side, and the mace sailed above his head. He backpedaled swiftly, halfheartedly jabbing his spear at his opponent in an effort to keep him back. Using this method, he managed to create enough distance to put himself out of range.

The boy circled around Cirrin, keeping a careful eye on the end of his spear. Cirrin sidestepped around his opponent in a circle to keep his spear pointed at the boy. Without taking his eyes off Cirrin, the boy reached down and picked up a rock with his free hand. He stood up and chucked it at Cirrin's head. Cirrin sidestepped it easily. The boy threw another, larger rock. Cirrin knocked it aside with his spear. The boy took the opportunity to run forward and try to strike with his mace. Before Cirrin could do anything, the boy was too close for the tip of the spear to be useful. Thinking quickly, Cirrin hit him on the temple with the butt of his spear. The blow dazed him for a few seconds. Cirrin raised the spear to finish him, but a quick swipe at Cirrin's leg with the mace convinced him to back away instead.

Cirrin noticed the boy glancing down at the ground, trying to find something else he could throw. He caught sight of another rock and bent down to pry it off the ground. Cirrin lunged, stabbing with the spear. The boy sprang away just in time to avoid being impaled. The sharp tip broke through his skin, giving him a shallow cut on his stomach that both of them ignored. The boy suddenly changed direction, springing toward Cirrin. Cirrin ducked the first swing, prompting the boy to swing his mace diagonally toward Cirrin's shoulder. Cirrin tried to jump back, but he wasn't used to maneuvering while crouched. He ended up falling on his rear end. The mace flew past him, narrowly missing his leg, but it changed direction and took aim at his head. Cirrin scrambled backward with his hands and feet, struggling to keep out of range of the mace. When he'd built up enough distance, he quickly pushed himself to his feet. The boy had stopped pursuing him, and Cirrin suddenly realized why: in his effort to avoid the mace, he'd let go of his spear and left it behind. A moment later, the boy from District 5 placed himself between Cirrin and the spear. He raised his mace above his head with both hands and flashed a confident smile.

Cirrin knew that without that spear, he would die. He had to get it back. But he had to put himself directly in harm's way to do so. He tried to think of some way to even the odds. He decided to mimic his opponent's strategy. He reached down, grabbed a stick, and flung it at the boy. He winced as it hit him, but didn't move. His weapon wasn't light enough for him to block projectiles with it without leaving a huge opening. Cirrin took a few extra seconds to find a rock and throw it. When it hit the boy's chest, a quiet crack indicated that one of his ribs had been broken. He ignored it, focusing on Cirrin. Cirrin tried throwing another rock. This time, the boy stepped out of the way, but immediately moved back into place. Cirrin knew his strategy wasn't going to work for much longer. He had to do something.

There was no choice. He let loose a loud war cry and charged directly at the boy. His opponent brought the mace down with bone-crushing force.

_React._

He spun to the right, reached down, and snatched the spear off the ground. As soon as he had a firm grip on it, he stabbed at the boy, who managed to duck in time to avoid it. Determined to finish the fight as soon as possible, Cirrin stabbed again. As the spear tip sailed straight for the boy's face, the mace came flying in from the side, colliding with the spear. It smashed the tip off the spear along with about a quarter of the shaft, and the force of the impact sent the rest of the shaft flying out of Cirrin's hands. Time seemed to slow for a second as he looked dumbly at his empty hands, then at the mace that was about to come toward him once more.

He jumped back, trying his best to build up as much distance as possible as quickly as possible. As he did so, he drew his survival knife. The boy calmly began to walk toward Cirrin, taking his time now that his enemy's most dangerous weapon was useless. Cirrin knew that he couldn't win against a mace with his knife in close combat. There was only one way he could possibly survive. The knife wasn't balanced for throwing, and Cirrin hadn't practiced knife-throwing very much during training, but if the boy got within striking distance, Cirrin was dead. He switched the knife so he was pinching the blade between his thumb and index finger. Then he drew back his hand and let the knife fly.

The knife wobbled and spun haphazardly through the air, sailing clear to the boy's left and into a nearby bush.

The boy grinned widely and advanced. Cirrin was panicking. _I'm going to die… I'm really going to die here!_

"Ah!"

Both of them froze and looked at the bush the knife had flown into. The pained cry had definitely come from there. As if to support the conclusion that Cirrin's confused brain had come to, the bush rustled. There was no doubt.

Someone was hiding in the bush.


	17. Manifestation

Quenn knew they had heard and seen him. There was nothing he could do about that. He looked down at his leg, where the knife had buried itself in his inner thigh. He pulled it out and emerged from the bush, holding it in front of him. The blade was covered in blood. He looked down at his leg. Blood was being pumped out with a rhythm matching that of his heartbeat. He was surprised at how real it felt. The warmth of the blood, the sting of the wound. He looked up at the other two.

The boy from District 5 was watching him carefully. Quenn realized that since he was armed and the boy's previous opponent wasn't, Quenn was now the biggest threat. The boy who had thrown the knife had disappeared, fleeing into the forest as soon as his enemy's attention was diverted. Quenn considered running, too, but he wasn't sure his leg would be up to the task.

The boy ran straight for Quenn, hefting his mace. Quenn didn't have time to come up with a plan. He ran around the nearest tree, eager to put something between him and the tribute that was trying to kill him. He heard the boy coming around from the left, so he moved to the right. Anytime the boy moved, he moved so that the tree stayed between them. The boy was obviously getting annoyed. Quenn heard him coming from the right, so he moved left around the tree, only to run straight into his enemy. He realized too late that the boy had feinted. The boy swung the mace with a loud roar. Quenn tried to back up and tripped over something, crashing to the ground as a result. The mace passed through the spot where his head had just been and slammed into the tree, putting a miniature crater in the trunk.

Quenn used his hands to push himself back onto his feet as the boy raised his mace above his head. In another moment, it would come down onto Quenn, smashing his skull. He had to do something. Strangely, though, he wasn't afraid. He still didn't believe he would actually die if he got hit. Rather than trying to escape, he lunged upward, thrusting the knife into the boy's chest. It slid between two of his ribs and neatly pierced his heart, killing him instantly. The mace fell behind him as his legs stopped supporting his weight, causing him to crumple to a heap. Quenn let go of the knife and let it fall with him. As the boy's body hit the ground, the low boom of a cannon sounded.

Quenn suddenly felt dizzy. Once he'd moved around the tree so he wouldn't have to see the boy's body, he sat down with his back to the trunk and examined his wound. Blood was still pouring out at a shocking rate. By now, his entire left leg below the wound was covered in blood. His skin was starting to feel cold and clammy, especially the parts of his leg that weren't soaked in blood. He felt as though he wasn't drawing in enough air; breathing more deeply helped, but not much. Desperate to stop the bleeding, he pressed both hands against the wound. _Come on,_ he thought. _When will it stop? _

Quenn hadn't been well-educated in the subject of anatomy, so he had no way of knowing that his femoral artery had been severed. Even if someone had been there to tell him, he wouldn't have known what that meant.

It was strange. Before that moment, he hadn't felt anything like he was feeling then. For a second, he wondered if maybe he wasn't hallucinating after all. Then he berated himself. _No, this is definitely not real. There's no way this can be real. This… this is new. But it's just a hallucination. When I'm back to normal, maybe my parents can tell me what happened, and we can figure out why this one was so different. But for now, I just want to be home. _He sighed, knowing the price of returning to reality. Several times before, when he'd had severe hallucinations, his parents had rushed out to buy the medicine that would dispel them. Doing so, however, often meant they didn't have enough money left to buy dinner. More than once, his hallucinations had caused them to go hungry.

He didn't want to cost his family a meal again, but he wanted more than anything else to go back to his normal life, to his home. So he didn't protest, even though he was sure his parents were right beside him in the real world. He felt his consciousness fading. He didn't fight it. He merely leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and opened his mouth so they could put the pill in. Darkness rose to meet him, rushing over his mind like an ocean. He let it. _I'll just sleep for a bit, _he told himself, _and when I open my eyes again, I'll see my parents looking down at me, worried, like they always do. And I'll be home again… as soon as I open my eyes._

A second cannon fired in the distance.

**Author's note: Next week, I will be volunteering at a summer camp, so I will not have my computer or Internet access. As a result, _Severed From the Sky _will go on a week-long hiatus. I apologize to my readers for the inconvenience and thank you for your patience. And who knows? When updates resume on the 25th, there may just be an extra chapter waiting for you guys...**


	18. Contemplation

**Author's note: Thanks to all my readers for your patience during last week's hiatus! As an apology/token of appreciation, I have something special for you today: the two chapters that you would have gotten last week, as well as today's new chapter! The regular release schedule will resume with one new chapter this Thursday. Thanks again, and enjoy!**

Tarras took a flat, thin wafer out of her pack and bit off a piece. The field rations had been treated so they would have no flavor, which was no doubt an improvement over their natural flavor. Still, it wasn't exactly a pleasant meal. Nutritious, practical, but not pleasant.

As she ate, her thoughts drifted back to the girl from District 5, who she had killed the previous day. Yes, she'd killed before, but something about that girl's death was different. There was something about it that she had never encountered before. She didn't have to think hard to identify the anomaly. The girl had begged for her life. She had desperately wanted Tarras to spare her. Clearly, such an idea was completely illogical. The girl was severely wounded; and even if her injury wasn't fatal by itself, it would leave her vulnerable to infection, predators, other tributes, and various other dangers. Even supposing the injury was negligible, which was a far too generous assumption, she would still have to endure and win the Hunger Games for Tarras's act of mercy to mean anything.

Tarras didn't understand it. What could possibly make a person disregard all logic and beg for her life like that? What was it about her life that drove her to prolong it at all costs? Tarras, having been raised as a Career, couldn't fathom the answer. She'd known little more than fighting her entire life. When she sparred, if she lost, she accepted defeat and thought about what she'd done wrong so she could improve next time. She didn't understand how actual combat in the arena would be any different, except for the impossibility of a next time.

She considered the few glimpses of normal children she'd seen. One memory from when she was eight stuck out in her mind. She was in the woods with her trainers learning to climb trees. She'd managed to give them the slip and escape by herself to explore. As she roamed, she saw the edge of the woods ahead. Curious, she moved closer until she could see what lay beyond the trees. It was a small playground. Four smiling children romped and played together, laughing and shouting unintelligible words at each other. One of them tripped and tumbled down a slide, causing the other three to stop and look at him with concern until he stood up and flashed them all a wide grin to show that he was uninjured. Tarras felt an unexplained desire, a longing to join in. Just as she'd started forward, however, a trainer had grabbed her wrist and brought her back into the heart of the woods.

Now she wondered if the girl from District 5 had had a childhood like those children she saw playing. If she had, maybe there was something about that kind of life that made it far more precious than her own. For a brief moment, she pictured a younger version of the girl from District 5 among the other children, laughing as her friend picked himself up off the ground in front of the slide. Maybe it wasn't just her. Maybe every non-Career had had a life like that. But then, what drove some of them to kill like Careers? Had they also led strict, focused, controlled lives? Or maybe they were just so afraid to lose their lives that they ended the lives of others? Tarras considered for a moment that her motivation might be the same. The thought was banished as quickly as it had come. No, killing opponents was simply the right and logical thing to do. It was what she'd been taught. If an enemy threatens your life or your victory in the Games, you kill them. Otherwise, you can't win. Her trainers had never brought up the idea of doing anything else.

Tarras wondered if what her life would be like after winning. There would be no more training, no more sparring, no more drills. There wouldn't be any need to study ways of starting a fire in any environment or which plants could be used to poison a blade. She would finally be able to live a normal life – that is, as normal of a life as a victor of the Hunger Games could have. Other victors in her district usually led fairly secluded lives; they didn't invite anyone to their luxurious mansions, and no one visited. Tarras supposed if she wanted to, she could be different. She could make friends and go places with them. She was too old to play on playgrounds, but she figured they could go do whatever normal 17-year-olds did. Maybe, if she lived the kind of life she'd been missing out on, she could understand the other tributes. Maybe in a few years, she would realize why the girl from District 5 had gone so far as to beg for her life.

Tarras had finished the wafer a while ago. She took a swig of water from her canteen and moved on, following the trail of the girl who she'd encountered on the first day. Perhaps she'd catch up today.


	19. Immersion

Mar wandered through the forest, barely noticing as he stumbled over a fallen tree. He was oblivious to the insects that buzzed angrily when he disrupted their home, and a monkey's screech above failed to catch his attention. Mar felt like he was underwater, like he was seeing and hearing everything through a pillow that someone was using to smother him. His body felt heavy, but he trudged on without really considering why.

He hadn't slept since before the Games began. It was day three, so he'd gone well over 48 hours without any sleep. That was far longer than he was used to. At home, he'd almost always gotten a good night's sleep. He was easily the heaviest sleeper in his family. In fact, before the Games, he had never even gone 24 hours without sleeping. He knew that in his current state, he was unfit to deal with danger of any kind. But he couldn't sleep. He'd tried. He stayed awake, fearing that the moment he drifted off, someone would be there to take advantage of it. Every moment he spent without looking around and listening carefully filled him with dread. He was convinced that he would be found the very moment he was least ready. So he kept walking, hoping that by doing so, he'd manage to evade everyone else.

Ahead, a tall plant with several leafy stalks bent toward a tree. Strangely, it looked like it was embracing the tree. Or trying to strangle it. Mar could have sworn there were three similar plants that he'd passed doing the exact same thing. He blinked the sleepiness from his eyes, and in a moment of clarity, he observed the plant. It wasn't just the same kind of plant – it was the _same_ plant. Mar realized with a groan that he'd been going in circles somehow. _I need a rest,_ he decided. He sat down with his back to a tree nearby.

He began to wonder whether it was a better idea to remain still. If he found a good hiding spot and camouflaged himself, maybe he'd be less at risk of being found than if he kept on the move. There was always the risk while moving that he'd stumble into the path of another tribute; but if he stayed still, he'd be more likely to be off-guard if he was found. Besides, it wasn't less likely that someone would find him if he stayed still, assuming most or all of the other tributes were on the move. Mar somehow got the feeling that if he did try to camouflage himself and wait, the earth would simply swallow him alive. His judgment was clouded by his sleepiness. He decided to postpone the decision until his head was clearer.

As he rested, he stared at a tree trunk across from him. A dream started to superimpose itself on the image of the tree trunk, layers of moving images on a still one, rendering him unable to identify either. Just then, something in his dream rushed toward him, thrusting something silver at his face. He started. He had no idea how long he'd been sitting down. He quickly got up, chose a direction, and kept moving.

He'd been startled awake temporarily, but as he trudged on and the scenery barely changed, he began to grow sleepy again. He knew without a doubt that he needed to get some sleep. In his present state, he wasn't sure he'd even notice if someone attacked him. He needed to be alert, even if the cost was being defenseless for a few hours. It was also growing harder to fight the longing to immerse himself in sleep, to lay down, close his eyes, and drift off. Eventually, he came upon a particularly large, thick tree. In his sleep-deprived state, he took it to be a sign of safety. It was good enough. He walked numbly to its base, lay his head down with an exposed root as his pillow, and closed his eyes.


	20. Suspicion

A brown and gray spider crawled on the underside of a broad, waxy leaf. When Mora's fingers brushed it, the spider hurried down the plant's stem and onto a safer leaf. Mora examined the plant. It looked vaguely familiar. Despite her certainty that she'd seen it before, she knew it might simply look similar to a plant she was familiar with. She didn't want to eat a plant that might possibly be poisonous. Back in District 8, she'd been fascinated by plants, which was ironic, since District 8 consisted almost entirely of one huge city. The only place she'd ever seen a multitude of plants together was the greenhouse near her apartment. She had learned about each and every one, and eventually, she landed a position as an assistant to the botanist that owned the greenhouse. She had hoped to become a botanist herself someday. If she somehow managed to win the Games, she wouldn't need a career anymore, but she decided she'd take up botany anyway to occupy her time.

She was so preoccupied trying to determine the plant's identity that she didn't notice the sound of footsteps until the person was close enough to see her.

When she detected the sound, she immediately stood up and wheeled around, raising her metal pipe. She didn't like what she saw. It was a boy holding a gleaming machete at his side. He had a small black messenger bag hanging off his shoulder. His head was shaved, and his eyes were cold and hard. They softened when they met hers. "Hey, hold up," he said cautiously, holding up his hands with the palms facing her as a sign that he wasn't threatening her. It wasn't very convincing, since he still gripped the machete in one hand. "I wasn't going to kill you. I don't want to kill anyone. I just heard something and wanted to see what it was. That's it. I was just deciding which way to leave." He smiled in an attempt to put her at ease.

It didn't work. "Pick a direction and go, then. I won't attack you if you don't attack me."

He lowered his hands. "You're not? You mean you don't want to kill anyone, either?"

She eyed him suspiciously. "What's it to you? From the looks of that machete, you don't seem to mind killing."

"What? No, I didn't take this to kill anyone!" he corrected her hastily. "I grabbed this to cut through places with lots of vegetation. Well, for the intimidation value, too. But I'd never use it to kill anyone, unless they attacked me first. Besides, that pipe there can become a lethal weapon pretty easily."

She had to give him that one. "Whatever. If you're leaving, then just leave." He didn't budge, so she added, "Please."

"Well… I was thinking. What if we team up?" She maintained her suspicious glare, but didn't say anything. He took this as a signal to continue. "I mean, two people can survive much better in the Games. They can sleep in shifts, work together to hunt, scavenge, defend themselves… And they can bounce ideas off each other, so they're less likely to make a mistake. I've honestly wanted to team up with someone for a while, but when you meet someone, you can't assume they're not going to kill you, you know? But you're not. I can tell. So we can try to get through this together without killing any more than we have to."

That last part rattled Mora a little. _Killing any more than we have to._ Much as she hated to admit it, she wasn't likely to win the Games without having to kill someone in self-defense. If she teamed up with someone, that was especially true; if another tribute didn't kill her partner, she would eventually have to. She also couldn't be sure his intentions were as honest as he claimed. Still, she couldn't deny his logic. Having a partner would greatly increase her chances of winning. And she had to win if she wanted to have the life with _him_ she'd dreamed of.

She took a deep breath. "All right. Let's team up."

He gave a relieved smile. "Great. I've already got a campsite set up. It's semi-permanent, so we'll probably be sleeping there every night. It's protected and everything. Come on." He turned and walked off into the forest. Mora hesitated only a second before following him. As they walked, he asked her what useful skills and knowledge she could bring to their partnership, and he shared his own in turn. She carefully avoided telling him anything that would give him any information about her background, except for her home district. He reciprocated by telling her he was from District 7.

Eventually, they came to a spot where the vegetation was fairly thick. He used the machete to cut down the plants and vines in their way with broad chopping motions, but progress was slow. Mora was starting to get impatient. "Let me try," she said, holding out her hand for the machete. He hesitated, and she realized he didn't fully trust her. She held up the pipe in her other hand, offering a trade. He understood and gave her the machete while taking the pipe. She quickly found that cutting through the plants was much harder than it looked. Soon, she was sweating profusely, and the muscles in her arms burned. Still, she'd done a better job of cutting through the vegetation than he had. As she gave the machete back, she noticed the formerly clean blade was stained with green plant juices. "Sorry," she said sincerely as she took back her pipe.

As they approached a small clearing, he put a hand on her shoulder, signaling her to stop. He then took the lead, instructing her, "Step exactly where I step, and nowhere else." Despite her internal confusion, she complied, watching his feet carefully and placing her feet in the same spots. When they reached the middle of the clearing, he visibly relaxed. "Traps," he explained. "My dad's a trapper. When I leave camp, I usually leave about half of the traps still armed, in case anyone wanders by while I'm gone. I wouldn't want anyone to ambush me when I return." Above them was a thin, transparent tarp stretched between branches, which he explained as being one of the few things he grabbed from the Cornucopia.

From the bursts of color she could see through gaps in the canopy, Mora knew the sun was setting. Her new partner went around arming more traps while she stared at the sky, wondering what was going to happen to her. She hadn't planned on teaming up. But by doing so, she'd gained a secure camp and a makeshift roof to protect her from the rain for once. She sighed and tried to relax. She had before her the best chance to get a good night's sleep she'd received in the arena so far. She intended to take full advantage of it.


	21. Laceration

Darkness began to envelope Corae's world like a thick blanket, seeming to press against her senses, smothering them. Night had fallen – or at least, was about to. She couldn't tell, thanks to the thick canopy. Either way, her third day in the forest was at its end. Frankly, she was surprised she'd survived for so long. Any number of things could have happened over the three days she'd been in the forest. Yet not only had she not been attacked, but she'd managed to find food and water. Granted, she hadn't found enough to stop her from being hungry or thirsty, but it was enough to keep her alive for the time being. To her, every day she survived was like the miracle of life, as if every day, she started with a single cell and became two cells, four cells, a tissue, an organ, a person. Every dawn was rebirth.

Of course, that daily rebirth brought her from safety into a world of filth. She wanted desperately to be out of the Hunger Games. She felt miserable every time she woke up and wondered where she was before remembering all that had happened. And if the darkness around her was any indication, she needed to find somewhere to sleep so she could feel that way again in the morning.

A nearby tree suddenly threw red light onto her face, causing her to close her eyes, then squint as her eyes slowly adjusted. She saw the symbol of Panem as it began to fade into the image of a face. The boy from District 5 stared out at her with hollow, bleak eyes. Then came the face of the boy from District 11, looking slightly confused, as if he couldn't believe there was a camera about to snap a photo of him. Then it was over. Two more dead children. _I hope the Capitol is pleased._

She waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness again, then pressed on, hoping to find a bit of shelter before it became too dark to see at all. She could just make out shapes and silhouettes. As she looked, she saw a strange shape near the base of a large tree. At first, she couldn't tell what it was. Her first guess was a misshapen branch. As she drew closer, she realized it was a body. It appeared to be a corpse, but she reminded herself that dead bodies were immediately extracted from the arena. So whoever it was, they were alive. She did her best to keep quiet, but having had no practice or training in stealth, she still managed to make a fair amount of noise. Still, the person didn't wake up.

When she got close enough to stand directly over the person, she was able to see well enough to identify him. It was a small boy. He couldn't have been older than twelve or thirteen, she supposed. She remembered him as being the male tribute from District 4, which was odd, since she was certain he wasn't a Career. She could tell that he, like her, had nothing: no supplies, not even a weapon. As she looked down at him, she knew he was about as cut out for the Hunger Games as she was. They were both in the same boat. Maybe, just maybe, they could bail themselves out together. Teaming up had all sorts of advantages. They just needed to learn to trust one another. She couldn't imagine him pulling out a weapon and attacking her. She decided to take the risk.

"Hey," she said softly as she nudged him with her foot. "Hey." She nudged him harder. He groaned quietly. "Wake up."

Mar's eyes fluttered open, and he let out an almost-inaudible "Huh?" For a moment, he thought the voice was his mother's, but he knew it was completely different, although it was definitely a girl's voice. Then he realized where he was. He opened his eyes wide and saw Corae's dark silhouette outlined against the canopy. Panic filled him with adrenaline as he shot up onto his feet. Corae took a step back. "Get away!" Mar shouted forcefully. "Stay back!"

Corae considered taking another step back, but decided to try to calm him down. She held up her hands with her palms facing him, the universal sign for "Calm down." "Hold on," she said. "I'm unarmed. I don't want to hurt you. I just…" Her sentence was cut short as Mar shoved her with all his strength, sending her to the ground. She threw out her hands to break her fall and felt something sharp jab her left hand, sending pain shooting through it. Mar sprinted away, stumbling and tripping, but picking himself up and continuing to run each time.

She looked at her hand. A cut stretched across her palm. It was fairly shallow, but it was covering her hand in blood. She examined the ground, wondering what cut her, and found a jagged rock hidden beneath decaying leaves. She sighed, mentally shouldering the weight of being alone once more, and kept looking for shelter.


	22. Option

Dawn broke far above the rainforest, gradually spreading warm-hued light across the sky. Mar failed to notice the light until several hours past dawn. He had no idea how long or how far he'd run. He guessed by the brightness of the sky above that it was nearing noon on the fourth day of the Hunger Games, although he had no way of verifying his theory. He felt fortunate to have at least gotten some sleep. He still felt like his mind and body were being weighed down, but it was as if some of the weights had been removed.

He'd had plenty of time to calm down since he'd been awakened by the girl with the short red hair. He racked his mind, trying to remember which district she was from. He was fairly certain the female tribute from 11 had short red hair. He thought back to their short meeting. He'd been so frightened when he saw her standing over him, but now that he thought about it, she could have just killed him as he slept. It didn't make any sense for her to wake him up. On top of that, he couldn't remember what weapon she had carried, or even seeing a weapon at all. Her body language hadn't been hostile, either. Mar started to wonder if she hadn't been lying when she said she wasn't out to hurt him. He shook his head. _No. Everyone is in this game to win,_ he reminded himself. _And that means everyone wants to kill as many opponents as possible. Whatever she was planning, it ended with my death. I was right to get out of there._ He struggled to explain away the strange behavior she'd shown. Maybe she had been trying to sneak up to him, but stepped a little too close and nudged him with her foot, waking him up accidentally. She could easily have been concealing a dagger, which she didn't have in her hand so that if she did wake him up by mistake, she could pretend she was trying to team up with him. Then she could get close enough to kill him at her leisure. _Yeah, that's definitely what she was doing._

It was good for him to be thinking clearly and logically. That would keep him alive longer. He realized how dangerous it would be to panic when his life was in jeopardy. He had to remain calm, no matter what. If he stayed calm, he could look at any situation clearly and choose the best course of action. Panicking might lead him right into an enemy's trap.

As he stepped through the dark, spongy forest floor, he failed to notice that a branch above him was bending downward in a clearly-unnatural manner. Mar walked underneath it, oblivious, and suddenly felt something tighten around his ankle. Before he could react, it wrenched his feet away, causing him to come crashing to the ground. A second later, the world around him blurred as he felt himself being hoisted into the air. When he stopped moving, the forest was upside-down, and he could feel blood rushing to his head. He looked up at his ankle. A rope tied to the branch ended with a noose, which had a vicelike grip on his ankle. It was obviously not natural. It only took Mar a moment to come to the conclusion that it was a trap another tribute had set up. And he had walked right into it.

A few moments of panicked flailing demonstrated to Mar that he couldn't reach the ground, the tree, or anything else from where he was. He was helpless. He felt the fear rising, overwhelming him. Whoever had set the trap, or anyone else that walked by, could kill him easily. He let out a small scream. _I'm gonna die! Someone's going to come and kill me and there'll be nothing I can do! I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die! _Tears started to blur his vision. _I don't want to die. I'm not ready! I can't die! I just want to go home and live my life! _He thrashed and struggled uselessly. Panicked cries rose from his throat, unrestrained now. He felt a full-fledged scream begin somewhere in his chest and start to race up to his mouth.

_No! Stay calm, stay calm!_ He managed to subdue the scream into a whimper before releasing it. He stopped moving. _The more noise I make, the more attention I attract. I need to calm down. I'm not dead yet. There's gotta be something I can do. _He looked at the rope tied tight around his ankle. If he had a blade, he could just reach up and cut it. Maybe he could untie it. He reached upward, trying to grab the rope. By bending his torso as if he was doing a sit-up, he managed to grab the rope fairly easily. It took only a few seconds of pulling at the knot to realize he couldn't untie it while the rope was stretched tight. Using only his arms, he pulled himself up, climbing the rope until he reached the branch above. In another minute, he'd managed to hoist himself onto the branch, which easily held his weight. As a side effect of helping his father operate his fishing boat, Mar was fairly physically fit for his age, but not as fit as any of the Careers.

His fingers scrambled across the knot, tugging and pushing various portions, trying to undo it. It was like solving a puzzle. It might have been enjoyable to Mar if he wasn't terrified. After several minutes that seemed like hours, the knot finally surrendered, unraveling and dropping away from his ankle. He let out a relieved sigh and dropped the rope. Suddenly, he heard something hit the ground with a thump. He looked down and felt a chill run through him as the girl from District 10 stepped away from her pack, which she had just dropped. With one hand, she pushed her curly brown hair away from her face so she could see clearly. The other hand had a slim throwing knife. She was pinching the blade between her thumb and the side of her index finger, the way knife-throwers at fairs in District 4 did. Mar realized that there was no way to dodge the knife from the branch. If he jumped down, she'd hit him the moment he landed.

He was out of options.


	23. Preparation

To his relief, Devorac saw a clearing up ahead through a gap in the trees. He estimated that that was where the smoke had risen from. _Finally,_ he thought. _Now let's see if there's actually anything here to find. Maybe I'll at least be able to track whoever set the fire from here. _

Devorac was in a dismal mood. Shortly after beginning his voyage down the stream, his hastily-built raft had fallen apart. Raft-making hadn't exactly been one of his specialties during training, but he had no idea what he'd done wrong. As far as he knew, he'd followed his trainers' instructions to the letter. Luckily, he'd been able to retrieve all his gear and climb onto solid ground. That was the only upside to his situation. Devorac had been left soaked and a long distance away from his destination. He had decided to keep going anyway, in case he got lucky and the fire-starter didn't leave before he arrived. Or maybe one of the other Careers would arrive before him and remain there long enough for him to get there; then he could take out one of his most dangerous opponents. Thinking about fighting Careers as prepared and trained as he was made him a little nervous, but he was confident in his ability to kill any other tribute in the Games. He had initially estimated that he'd reach the camp by midnight if he didn't stop for the night; however, he hadn't accounted for how much the darkness would reduce his speed. By the time he finally caught a glimpse of the clearing, it was morning on the fourth day.

The clearing was bright, but empty, except for a circle of stones surrounding a pile of cold ash. He listened attentively, but no sound reached his ears except for the ambient noises of the forest, which he was tuning out automatically by now. A second visual scan revealed nothing, either. A third attracted his attention to the fireplace. For some reason, something about it seemed off to him. He decided it must be because he was so used to building fireplaces perfectly that an amateur's attempt at one looked wrong to him. Then he realized something strange. All of the larger stones around the fireplace had points or jagged edges of some kind. They were arranged so all of the points and jagged edges jutted upward.

Just as he realized what was about to happen, a force behind him shoved him toward the fireplace.

He had only a moment to react. In less than a second, his feet would hit the stones closest to him and he would topple over, with his head landing on the rocks on the other side of the circle. He couldn't stop his momentum, so he jumped over the stones, landing directly in the pile of ash. Since staying the circle would restrict his movement, he leapt outside the fireplace again and turned toward where he thought his attacker was. He saw movement in his peripheral vision from a different direction. With a powerful war cry, he swung his axe, warding off the attack of a slim figure holding a straightbacked meat cleaver. He turned around in time to point his axe at the person who had pushed him toward the fireplace. "Back off," he growled in a threatening voice. The boy stopped advancing, but didn't back away, either. It was the male tribute from District 9, carrying a two-pronged pitchfork. Devorac glanced over at his cleaver-wielding partner, the girl from District 12. At twelve years old, she was the youngest tribute in the Games. But she was older than many of the homeless children starving in District 2.

Devorac quickly tossed aside his pack and mentally reviewed his training for ambushes. _If you're injured, you're outnumbered at least three to one, or another Career is part of the ambush, escape the way you came._ No, no, and no. _If you end up involved in combat against multiple opponents, stay on the defensive. If you can, retreat to a place where they'll be forced to fight you one at time._ In a rainforest? Impossible. _You're always at a disadvantage when fighting multiple opponents, since they can attack from multiple directions at once. Quickly attempt to identify which opponents will be the most difficult to defeat. _It took Devorac a split-second to decide that the boy from District 9 was the bigger threat. _Target the weakest opponents first in order to reduce the odds against you as quickly as possible. Try not to engage the most proficient opponents until you have removed the weaker ones. If you can, leave the toughest opponent for last. _

With that in mind, Devorac lashed out at the girl. She ducked, avoiding the heavy axe blade. He quickly stepped forward, kneeing her in the face. She was knocked to the ground easily. Devorac twisted his body in anticipation of the boy's attack. Sure enough, the two prongs narrowly missed his shoulder. He stepped toward the boy and raised his axe, causing the boy to back up. He then turned and swung the spike side of his axe diagonally at the girl, who had just gotten up. She leaned to one side, avoiding the spike, and raised her cleaver as she moved closer. At the same time, the boy thrust his pitchfork at Devorac's legs. Devorac only had enough time to completely avoid one attack. He shifted his legs out of the pitchfork's way, raising his left forearm to block his face from the cleaver. It cut deep into his flesh, but didn't do any serious damage. The girl wisely moved back out of range before he could ready his axe.

_This is not going well, _Devorac thought. _I need to finish this girl fast so I can deal with that pitchfork guy. It's bad enough that he's got a longer reach than me. _He held the axe so that his left forearm pointed upwards; that way, the blood wouldn't flow onto his hand and loosen his grip. The boy and girl circled him, shouting at each other in an attempt to coordinate their efforts. To disrupt their communication, he rushed the girl before they were ready with a plan. He raised his axe as if he was going to swing it, then suddenly thrust with the handle. She ducked and dove between his legs. Before he could fully stop his momentum, she was up and charging at him from behind. There was no time to use the axe. When she was close enough, he half-turned his body, lashing out with his elbow as he did. To his surprise, she avoided it and slashed at him, cutting his jacket, but failing to hit his flesh. He reached out, grabbed her hair, and tugged, bringing her to the ground again. By then, the boy was almost upon him.

_She's good, _he thought. _Surprisingly good. Maybe she's not the weakest link here after all._ He decided to test his theory by focusing on the boy. He leapt to one side and rolled to avoid the pitchfork. Rising smoothly to his feet, he positioned himself so he was facing the boy with his back to a tree. Then he lowered his axe a little, mentally goading the boy into attacking. _Come on, come on, coward! Try to stab me again with all your might!_ The boy stabbed at Devorac's leg again with abnormal speed and force, fueled by the adrenaline surging through him. Devorac dodged it, and the prongs pierced the tree, penetrating deep into the trunk. The boy tried helplessly to tug his weapon out of the tree; with Devorac raising his axe for another attack, he made the fatal mistake of trying again. Even if the weapon had come out on his second attempt, he couldn't have prepared to use it before Devorac's axe opened his stomach wide. Sausage-like intestines were visible for a split second before he fell facedown, his blood quickly pooling around him.

When he looked up, the girl from District 12 was already fleeing the clearing, her light brown hair billowing behind her like a flag in the wind. Devorac knew he couldn't catch her. He was much larger and less agile, and he had the axe weighing him down. He sat down near the fireplace with his pack and pulled out the medical supplies, ignoring the boy from District 9, who was dying, but not yet dead. As Devorac treated the wound on his arm, he reflected on the ambush. They had purposely tried to lure in other tributes so they would have the advantage of being prepared. But Devorac's training and determination to win at all costs meant that he was still better prepared for that fight. He inwardly thanked his trainers. He hadn't enjoyed his training at all, but it had prepared him to do something great for his district.


	24. Deception

Mora scanned the forest floor, willing herself to remain calm and focused. Not far from where she was, the boy from District 7 was bent over, searching for a plant she had described to him. The plant probably wasn't real, since she had just jumbled together traits of various plants she was familiar with. She squatted and examined the leaves of a vine twisting around a tree, thinking hard about how she was going to escape. For she had realized that teaming up with the boy from District 7 was a grave mistake. She had been deceived.

She remembered how after using the boy's machete to cut down vegetation, it had been covered in green plant juices. She also remembered that when she first saw him, the machete was so clean, it gleamed. It was likely that he'd given the blade a good cleaning, but there would be no reason to clean plant juices off of it, especially if he planned to keep using it to cut down vegetation. No, he'd most likely cleaned blood off the blade. Mora didn't realize her mistake until she was in the camp with him, trying to get to sleep. By then, it was too late to escape. She had no idea where any of his traps were. The chance that she would set one off by mistake was too high. Since she knew he was planning to betray and kill her, she wondered why he didn't try to do so at night. She figured it was because she kept a tight grip on her pipe throughout the night. She hadn't been able to sleep at all after realizing his intentions.

The next morning, she had acted like nothing was wrong. He had noted their lack of food and suggested they go hunting. She mentioned her knowledge of edible plants, hoping to escape under the pretense of searching for food. He had complicated her plans by deciding to go with her to help her look. The thought scared her, since she was sure he'd use the opportunity to attack her, but she did a good job of remaining calm and collected.

Mora decided to see if she could confirm her suspicions regarding her partner's true motive. She positioned herself so she wasn't looking in his direction, but she could see him in her peripheral vision. She pretended to carefully examine a small plant while concentrating on him. A minute passed in tense waiting and feigned examination. Suddenly, she noticed him move. She resisted the strong urge to turn her head and look at him. He grew smaller in her peripheral vision, and she realized that he was crouching. He then began to move closer to her, being careful not to make any noise.

It was enough for Mora. She instantly stood up and darted off in the opposite direction, causing the boy to yell "Hey!" and run after her. She weaved between trees and over rocks, but to her surprise, he began to close the gap. He was faster than she'd anticipated. Strong fear began to overwhelm her, and she willed her legs to carry her faster. She could hear him as he came within several feet of her. Both of them were sprinting by then. Just as she realized that he was going to catch her, something happened. A loud "Whoa!" burst from her pursuer's throat, a branch rustled noisily, and she didn't hear him behind her any more. She risked looking over her shoulder and saw him upside-down in midair, dangling by his ankle from a rope tied to a tree branch above. She kept running despite the pain her exertion was causing. He could cut himself down quickly with the machete, but the lead the trap gave her might guarantee her escape. She silently thanked whoever had set the trap and dashed away as quickly as her legs would carry her.


	25. Incubation

In the dark confines of a living vein, a red blood cell, swollen with oxygen, flew through the plasma, propelled by the strong beats of the heart. It branched off at the ulnar artery, traveling down the arm and into the palm, where it exited the body through a cut that penetrated multiple layers of skin and muscle, reaching deep enough to pierce the wall of the ulnar artery and expose the blood inside to the open air. The cell hit a microscopic section of a crumpled-up leaf and slid down out of sight, engulfed in darkness once again.

Corae looked at the ball of crumpled leaves in her fist, pressed against the bleeding wound. They didn't exactly absorb the blood very well. If only she'd had a bandage, it wouldn't have been a problem. In fiction, when the hero was wounded and didn't have bandages, he (or she) would cut or tear off a piece of his shirt to use instead. Unfortunately, Corae didn't have anything she could cut with, either, and she wasn't strong enough to tear the durable fibers of her shirt apart. Last night, when she'd first received the wound, she simply used leaves to wipe the blood off when it started to accumulate, dropping each leaf when she was done with it. This morning, after reopening the cut by accident, she had thought of clutching a fistful of leaves to absorb the blood. It didn't work as well as she had thought it would, but it was the best she could do. Her other hand was in her pocket, gently stroking the five wide petals of an orange flower. She'd found it while gathering leaves and decided to pick it on a whim. She wasn't sure why. Maybe it acted as a small comfort to her in this world of death.

As she wandered through the brightening forest, her hair partially over her face to protect it from the insects that buzzed incessantly around her, she wondered if trying to team up was a bad idea after all. She had no way of proving to a potential teammate that she didn't intend to kill them; worse, she had no way of proving that they didn't intend to kill her. The small boy she'd met had been justified in his rejection of her offer. She was just grateful that he didn't try to kill her right there. And even if that initial hurdle had been overcome, what would have been the result? A little comfort and added safety before they were forced to turn on each other?

A sudden despair gripped Corae, wrenching her soul hard enough to make her want to throw up. There was no way she could outlive everyone else. So many of them were bigger, stronger, smarter, better-equipped, trained, and more determined. Forget Careers – running into anyone with a weapon would spell the end for her. Even if she teamed up with someone who knew what they were doing, she'd just die later on in the Games. In fact, putting herself in constant proximity with a dangerous opponent would only decrease her chance of survival further. So far, she had lived day-to-day, problem-to-problem. When she looked at the bigger picture, her chances of winning were almost zero, and no amount of planning could help her.

A sudden urge came to her to write. Back in District 11, whenever she'd felt hopeless, alone, or melancholy, she'd gone to the desk in her room to write poetry. It always made her feel better, and the few poems she was bold enough to share received positive feedback. She considered herself a poet at heart. In the rainforest, however, there was no desk, no pen, and, ironically enough, no paper. Still, she didn't need any of those things in order to actually write poetry. She tried to conjure up the beginning of a poem in her head and work from there. She looked around for inspiration, but nothing that met her eye stirred her creativity. If anything, she felt less inclined to write. She blamed the hell that this forest represented for her. It was clear that she couldn't come up with anything within the boundaries of the arena.

Out of force of habit, she turned her eyes skyward, catching bits of white and blue above the canopy. As soon as she did so, she felt a flash of anger at herself. _My parents are right, _she thought. _I always look at the sky when my problems are here on Earth._ Yet she couldn't tear her eyes away from the only beautiful thing they'd seen in days. Miles above, a cloud drifted in front of the sun, receiving a gold outline courtesy of its bright rays. In all its majesty, it would never face the kind of predicament Corae now faced.

At first, the cloud almost seemed to be mocking her with its golden lining and its immunity to trouble. Then, as she continued to stare at it, it took on a whole new meaning within her mind. _It's not mocking me… it's showing me my future! When I win the Hunger Games, I'll be just like that cloud! Completely free of stress and worry. I won't ever have to worry about food or clothes or working. Neither will my family, for that matter. That's it – I've got to win. I've got to. Then I'll live an easy, carefree life. _Uplifted by these thoughts, another whim regarding the orange flower struck her. She took it out of her pocket and put it in her hair, positioning it carefully so it wouldn't fall. The dark orange petals complimented her hair nicely. Without her permitting or realizing it, a smile spread across her face. Her burden didn't seem so heavy when she focused on the kernel of hope before her. She strode forward just a little faster than before, stepping elegantly between the trees.


	26. Distraction

Cirrin's stomach growled noisily, reminding him of his desperate need to eat something. As if he needed to be reminded. His hunger produced a constant dull pain in his stomach, moving food up to priority number one. He gritted his teeth, willing himself to bear the pain rather than grab the nearest edible-looking plants. He knew that he couldn't just keep eating whatever he found.

He had thrown up again since his fight with the mace-wielding boy from District 5. He had no idea why, but he guessed he must have accidentally eaten a rotten berry without realizing it. It had become abundantly clear to him that he was neither a hunter nor a gatherer. He had never needed to produce his own sustenance before; his appetite wasn't very big, so the little food he could afford back in District 12 was usually enough. As a result, he knew nothing of how to judge whether or not something was edible, or how to make it edible if it wasn't.

In the Cornucopia, there had been some scattered supplies, including food. Slices of cheese and bits of beef had given way to whole loaves of bread and pounds of sliced meat near the center of the Cornucopia. He, of course, hadn't grabbed any of it. But someone must have. It was almost certainly all taken by the time the Cornucopia was abandoned. Or maybe some of the others knew how to hunt. At any rate, he was sure everyone but him had a plan regarding their meals. Cirrin realized that the only viable way to get enough food to keep himself alive was to find another tribute and take theirs. The thought wasn't exactly a comforting one, especially since he'd lost both his spear and his knife. But it was either that or lie down and die slowly.

With that in mind, he wandered the forest. Just as before, he was attentive to any signs of others, but for a very different reason. Hours passed silently and uneventfully as the pain in his stomach multiplied and his anxiety intensified. He began to realize how unlikely it was that he would just stumble across another tribute at all, let alone one with food. He began to think of another way to get enough food, but nothing came to mind. As he racked his brain, the sound of a voice reached him. For a moment, he wondered if it was possible for hunger to cause hallucinations. Then the voice reached his ears again, louder this time. Crouching down, he moved toward it, trying to balance speed and stealth. When he arrived within sight of the source of the noise, he realized he hadn't needed to bother. She was clearly distracted.

A small boy was perched in a branch above, eyes wide with fright. It was the boy from District 4, the first non-Career from that district in years. On the ground below him was the girl from District 10. She had a knife pinched between two fingers, ready to throw. To Cirrin's great relief, she had dropped her pack behind her. He moved from one tree to another. If he could get close enough, he could grab the pack and be off before she could catch up.

"Just stay still!" she was calling up at the boy. "This will be over in a second." Cirrin took advantage of her inattention to move closer. She moved her arm in a whiplike motion to send her throwing knife at the boy. Just before she released the knife, he jumped off the branch, and the weapon sailed safely over his head. He grabbed the branch mid-fall and hung from it, even more helpless than before. By now, Cirrin was close enough to dash out and grab her pack, but he decided to wait until he was sure she was completely distracted. The girl from District 10 simply drew another knife, pulled it back, and threw it with the same whiplike motion. The boy released the branch, avoiding the second knife. His feet hit the ground and buckled, causing him to collapse. The girl drew a third knife and quickly strode forward to stab the boy.

_Now!_

Cirrin darted out from behind his tree and sprinted past the girl, slowing down just enough to scoop up her pack and sling it over his shoulder next to his own. He heard a cry of "Hey!" behind him, but he ignored it. A noise behind him indicated that she had abandoned her prey and was chasing him. He'd wanted to avoid a chase. Knowing she'd try throwing her knives at him, he zigzagged in between the trees. The exertion caused his stomach to protest painfully, but he ignored it, knowing his escape was a matter of life and death. When he had gained a large enough lead to risk turning his head and looking at her in his peripheral vision, he faintly saw her arm moving. He ducked instantly. A knife sliced through the air above his head, flying into the forest. He changed direction and ran as fast as his legs would carry him. His muscles began to burn, joining his stomach in its disapproval of his physical activity. He realized he was slowing down. He couldn't keep up his pace much longer.

He had to escape or die.


	27. Subtraction

Tarras had grown accustomed to the almost unsettlingly peaceful ambient noises of the forest. Birds chirping, insects buzzing, wind whooshing through trees, rain quietly pounding the leaves, and the occasional distant screech of a monkey. All of these sounds had become the tranquil soundtrack to her life. So the crashing sounds of a foot chase seemed alien enough to capture her undivided attention. She peered through the forest, trying to determine what direction the sounds were moving in and how far away they were. Before she could judge accurately, she caught a glimpse of the girl from District 10 running nearly at a full sprint, curly brown hair flying about randomly behind her, a knife pinched between two fingers. A moment later, she was out of sight, and the loud sounds of the chase began to recede.

Tarras hadn't seen anyone else, so she had no idea whether the girl was the pursuer or the prey, but judging by the fact that her attention was fixed firmly in front of her and she was readying a throwing knife, Tarras guessed she was the pursuer. For a brief moment, Tarras contemplated doing nothing in order to avoid drawing attention to herself. Then she decided it was best to eliminate the competition whenever possible and get the Games over with. Besides, the risk was minimal; she believed herself to be the best fighter there, and possible the best-equipped as well.

Her course of action decided, she set off after the girl at top speed, weaving to avoid a chase-ending crash into a tree. Her physical fitness made it easy to catch up; within ten seconds, she could see her quarry's brown hair billowing violently behind her like a little cape. She began to put on a burst of speed and close the gap. The girl, having heard the sounds of Tarras's pursuit, made the mistake of looking behind her. A look of absolute terror crossed her face as she saw the Witch, having apparently come out of nowhere, following her with frightening speed, brandishing a blackened spear. She desperately tried to dart around the trees and lose her pursuer, but Tarras was too close to be shaken off. The moment the girl had slowed down to look behind her, she'd ended any possibility of escape.

Knowing she had to kill or die, the girl turned around and threw another knife just as Tarras rounded a tree trunk. Nothing but Tarras's speedy reflexes saved her. She ducked mid-run, and the knife buried itself point-first in the tree trunk right behind her. Now the girl was standing still, but Tarras was still charging straight toward her. Her loud scream demonstrated her realization of what was about to happen. She turned to run anyway, but it was too little too late. Tarras's spear pierced her chest like it was cloth. The momentum of the spear pushed her forward, causing her to fall facedown to the forest floor. She was dead almost instantly.

Tarras stood up straight, ears alert for any unusual noise, one hand on the hilt of her short sword, eyes searching for cover. She stayed like that until she was sure no one had heard the commotion and was coming to investigate. Then she allowed herself a few moments of rest before pulling out her spear and cleaning off the blood. She searched the girl's body and found nothing of interest but a leather sheath with two knives in it and space for four more. It would be no good looking for the other three; they could be anywhere in the forest for all she knew. She retrieved the one in the tree behind her. Then she balanced each of the knives on the side of her finger one-by-one, trying to determine if the blade weighed the same as the handle. In each case, it did. They were good throwing knives. She tested the edge of one with her finger. A bit dull, but still very useful. She attached the sheath to her belt under her unzipped jacket and practiced moving her left hand to it. As she turned to leave, her eyes caught sight of the bloody corpse of the girl from District 10, and her stomach gave a little lurch, but she ignored it. She headed the way she'd come and tried to retrace her steps, silently cursing. It would be troublesome to pick up the trail of the girl from District 8 again.


	28. Invasion

**Author's note: Sorry for the late chapter, everyone! I meant to put this up yesterday. I'll be more careful to make sure I get chapters up on time. Enjoy!**

Devorac took a deep breath and licked rainwater off his lips. His hood was down, allowing the light drizzle to pepper his head. The cool drops were wonderfully soothing. The forest was dim, indicating the approach of night. He sat down against a tree to rest, but set his pack close by and kept a tight grip on his axe. He'd spent all of the fourth day of the Games trying to track down the girl from District 12. Throughout his search, his mind had drifted back to their brief clash over and over; he struggled to piece together exactly how she had avoided his attacks and even managed to wound him. He couldn't say that his confidence in his fighting ability wasn't shaken by his inability to kill such a small, frail-looking girl. And while he had found signs of a trail and started to follow it, he couldn't be sure that it was her trail, or even a human's trail. It was possible that he was accidentally tracking an animal, although he thought that probably wasn't the case. Once he realized that dusk was approaching, he had decided to put his hunt for the girl on hold and search for a suitable place to camp for the night. About an hour later, he had located the small clearing where he now sat, giving his weary body a break.

When he had given himself what he felt was an adequate amount of rest, he got up and began setting the usual traps around his campsite. In the midst of tying a string to the base of a bush, a red glow burst from a nearby tree trunk. Devorac quickly finished a simple knot and straightened up to watch the projection of deaths. The symbol of Panem morphed into a round face framed by curly brown hair: the girl from District 10. Then came the boy from District 9. His expression was one of thinly veiled fear; in many ways, it was a less intense version of the face he'd worn just before Devorac cut him open. After that, the projection ended; Devorac waited until his eyes readjusted before continuing with his snares.

Once he'd finished setting traps, he pitched his tent and settled inside. He unrolled a thick blanket. He'd snatched it up as soon as he saw it in the Cornucopia, knowing how useful a blanket would be in the Games. Its myriad uses made it one of the most versatile tools he could have; in fact, he'd heard claims that it was possible to survive in any environment with just a knife and a blanket. While he wasn't so sure he believed that, the message of the blanket's importance wasn't lost on him. Tonight, however, his use of the blanket was conventional: nights in the rainforest became very cold, and the blanket afforded him some warmth and comfort. Devorac was soon fast asleep.

His transition from asleep to awake was so seamless, it took him a few seconds to realize he was conscious. He quickly realized that pressure on his chest was what had awakened him. At first, he thought he was experiencing sleep paralysis. A beam of moonlight filtered through his tent, silhouetting the slim figure of a person sitting on Devorac's chest. Devorac immediately reached for his axe, which he always kept beside him as he slept. This action led him to recognize two facts: one, that it wasn't sleep paralysis because he could move his arm; and two, that his attacker had moved his axe just out of reach while he slept. The attacker raised a knife to strike.

Now fully awake, Devorac grabbed the attacker's pants near the hips and forcefully bucked his hips upward. At the same time, he pushed with his arms. His attacker toppled off him, freeing him to scramble toward his axe and snatch it up. He got to his feet, making sure to grab the blanket with his free hand, and retreated outside the tent; its close quarters would provide the attacker's knife the advantage. His mind was reeling. How had the attacker invaded his campsite so successfully? All of his traps were noisy enough to wake him up if they were triggered, and one of them was even connected to the zipper on his tent.

Not a full second after he backed out of the tent, the attacker followed, swinging a meat cleaver. Devorac feinted a one-handed swing of his axe in order to curb his opponent's assault. To his surprise, he recognized her as the girl from District 12. He had spent all day tracking her, only for her to ambush him a second time. Despite his frustration and shock, he was glad he'd had the foresight to grab the blanket. He'd been trained to use it as a weapon, much like Roman gladiators had used nets centuries before. His opponent's greatest weapon was her agility; used properly, the blanket could restrict her movement, leaving her vulnerable.

The girl's eyes had a determined glint as she stared down Devorac. It was like her inner warrior didn't realize what a small, fragile body it was trapped in. Devorac swung the blanket at her legs, but she reflexively stepped back. She tried to dart to his left and slash at him, but he swung the blanket again, more quickly than she'd anticipated. It wrapped itself over her head and torso, obscuring her vision completely. As she stumbled backward, frantically trying to unravel the blanket, Devorac let go of it and held his axe with both hands. He stepped forward and swung horizontally, cleaving through the blanket and into her side.

She fell, screaming in pain and fear. Knowing that the wound had rendered her harmless, Devorac reached down with his left hand and yanked the nearly-unraveled blanket off her. He tossed it aside and looked down at the girl, who clutched her massive wound and continued to scream, although not as loudly. Her right hand still gripped the cleaver tight; he pinned it down with his foot, removed it from her grip with his left hand, and tossed it aside as well. The inner warrior was gone, the fight was over, and now a scared twelve-year-old girl was all that remained. Devorac spoke in a voice that tried and failed to be soothing: "It's over now. Stop moving. Let me end your misery." Then, once her writhing slowed, he swiftly separated her head from her body.

Once he pulled his axe out of the soil, he retrieved his blanket, which now had a cut and a considerable amount of blood in it, and the girl's cleaver. It would make a good backup weapon, being dangerous psychologically as well as physically. He gazed back at the body, then around his campsite. With a sigh, he went to take down his tent. He wouldn't get any more sleep tonight.


	29. Seduction

Tarras cursed silently as she scoured the ground. She had been afraid to abandon the trail of the girl she'd been tracking, the one who had hit her on the leg on the first day of the Games. Tarras had known the risks of going after the girl from District 10. She had made her choice, and she was paying for it. All her attempts to pick up the trail again had failed, and her head was starting to hurt from the tediousness of hunting for tracks that just weren't there. Finally, she decided to accept that she'd lost her quarry. With a sigh, she stood up and stretched her aching muscles.

In her attempts to locate signs of the girl, Tarras had wandered near the stream that ran through the Hunger Games zone. She could tell from the loud gurgling that reached her ears, bounced through the forest by the trees. In a matter of minutes, she came within view of the stream. She approached cautiously, visually scanning the area to make sure no one else was nearby; thanks to the noise the stream was making, her hearing would be virtually useless for detecting other tributes. When she was fairly certain no one else was nearby, she set down her pack and filled her canteen. She didn't have to worry about whether or not the water was safe to drink; in their pre-Games briefing, all the tributes had been told that the stream water had been treated and was free of deadly microbes or parasites. It made sense; after all, death by thirst was significantly less exciting to watch than death by combat.

Once she had drunk her fill and refilled her canteen, she set it aside and knelt down toward the surface of the water. Over the last few days, her waist-length, blonde hair had accumulated a plethora of leaves, twigs, dirt, and insects both dead and alive, along with a hopeless maze of knots. Keeping it clean and untangled would have been impossible, so she hadn't bothered to try. Now that she was at the stream, she was grateful for the chance to wash her hair. As she lowered it into the water and ran her fingers through it, she turned her head to one side; that way, if someone approached from behind her, she would catch the movement in her peripheral vision. Truthfully, she longed to immerse herself in the water completely, to give herself a much-needed bath and rinse the dirt and sweat and filth from her skin. Of course, doing so would be incredibly stupid. She would be completely vulnerable. The smart choice was to endure the grime until the Games were over, so that was the choice she made.

As she rinsed her hair, she couldn't help but think of the shaved head of the boy from District 7. She supposed he had probably shaved his head before the Games for practical reasons. Short or non-existent hair didn't get dirty or interfere with vision, and it couldn't be grabbed in a fight. She would have loved to do the same, but her trainers had forced her to grow out her hair and keep it long. Their reasoning was that in a pinch, she could seduce a male opponent in order to get out of a perilous situation. They overruled her many protests, saying that having the option was worth the downsides of long hair. Many times already, Tarras had considered simply cutting it off, and she considered it again as she wrung excess water out of it. But her trainers' advice had already saved her life more than once, and she mentally reaffirmed her decision to trust them. Instead, she decided to compromise. After untangling the many knots, she fashioned her hair into a long braid that reached just short of her hips.

With her canteen filled and her hair washed and braided, she found herself without a goal, which was a dangerous prospect in the Games. Razor-sharp focus was necessary to survival and victory. She thought back to a severed rope she'd seen hanging from a tree branch earlier that day. It had obviously been placed there deliberately by someone. Her guess was that it was a trap, placed by one tribute for other tributes. Evidently, someone had been caught in it and hacked through the rope, freeing him- or herself. Tarras decided to return to the spot and see if she could track down the tribute that had escaped. She doubted that it was her original prey; that girl had been carrying a pipe and not any bladed weapons, although she may have acquired one over the course of the Games. In any case, taking out an opponent was productive and would give Tarras something to do. She set out in the direction she thought the severed rope was in, using her vision to compensate for her inability to hear much over the gushing of the stream.


	30. Regression

Mar carefully stepped over a fallen branch, using his arms to push plants away from his face as he made his way through the sea of brown and green. Once again, he was looking for food. He seemed to exist in a perpetual state of hunger and thirst, punctuated only by absolute terror. He reflected on his narrow escape from the girl from District 10. It had been pure luck. He had fully believed he was about to die before another tribute stole his attacker's supplies, distracting her long enough for him to run away. Evidently, her attempt to retrieve her pack hadn't gone so well; her face had been part of the previous night's projection of deaths. Mar was well aware that it could just as easily have been his face instead.

_And it still could be, if I don't find something to eat_, he thought grimly. He could keep his thirst at a tolerable level with rainwater, but food was another matter altogether. Food wouldn't simply fall from the sky. Having very little knowledge of plants, Mar had no idea which ones were edible. He didn't want to risk an unfamiliar plant; every time he considered it, he pictured a slow death by poisoning. He knew at least that the brown berries he'd eaten on the second day were safe, but he hadn't seen any since then. He began to wonder if he really should have even tried to escape the girl from District 10; dying quickly by her hands was preferable to starving to death.

It was another two hours before he found a meal. His stomach was growling loudly, and he was starting to fear that it would betray his location to any nearby tributes. The pain was also beginning to grow unbearable. Just as he was deciding to bite the bullet and try a random plant, he caught sight of something familiar. It was a group of plants that looked like hot dogs skewered at the top of long, thin stalks, with narrow leaves poking upward around them. Mar recognized them from his home in District 4: cattails. And they were edible. If Mar hadn't been so tired, he would have danced. He immediately picked up speed until he reached the group of cattails.

His father had taught him many ways to eat the cattails that grew near their house. The inner white flesh of the shoots was edible, but it wasn't much, and certainly not enough to sustain Mar for long. Instead, he examined the hot dog-shaped heads. He knew they were safe to eat at a certain age. Although he couldn't be sure, he thought the plants he'd found were around the right age. Pulling the head off one of the stalks, he bit into it carefully but eagerly. It was dry, but definitely edible. He took another, larger bite, then another, quickly consuming the entire head and moving on to another. They tasted like cucumber. Mar had always hated the taste of cucumber, but after going so long without a meal, he didn't care. He devoured every cattail head in the small cluster of plants before moving on to the shoots. When he thought he'd gotten as much sustenance as he could from the cattails, he tossed aside the tattered remains of the last shoot and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Then he moved on, leaving behind a mess of broken stalks and plant parts among the tall leaves.

Seeing something that reminded him of home had immensely improved his mood. His situation was still dire, but after eating the cattails, it no longer seemed hopeless. He pictured himself returning to District 4, to his family, his squat yellow house. He pictured himself swimming in ponds again, laughing with friends, telling jokes. He was struck with a sudden longing to regress back to the days before the Games. Back then, his life wasn't in danger, and he could easily get a meal when he wanted one. The Hunger Games and the Witch were just things he and his friends sometimes talked about, even less real to them than the classmates they gossiped about in hushed voices. He hadn't realized then just how easy his life was. The more he thought about it, the more he desperately wanted those carefree days back.

But he couldn't have them back. They were gone forever, stolen out of his hands by the Capitol and the Hunger Games. Even if he somehow won and returned home to District 4, everything would be different. He would live in the Victors' Circle, a group of mansions reserved for winners of the Hunger Games, not at home. Everyone would treat him differently; maybe they'd even treat him like an outsider, as if the Games had changed him into something they no longer recognized. His new neighbors would be old Careers who had won in previous years, people he knew he would never grow close to, or even comfortable around. Mar had to accept that everything familiar to him would change.

That, of course, was assuming he survived the Games. With his belly full, his mind began to resume its usual routine of discerning and imagining all the ways he could die. Mar decided that some sleep would be the best thing for him at the moment. He quickly pulled together a mess of sticks, leaves, and plants, then lay down on the forest floor and covered himself with them as fully as possible. One final paranoid thought struck him, and he quickly examined his makeshift camouflage for spiders. Then he forced himself to shut his eyes and sleep.


	31. Dehydration

A brief wind stirred the treetops, adding a soft rustle to the ambient sounds of the forest. Immediately, Mora looked up from the leaf she was licking moisture off of, desperately searching for a hint of the rain she knew to be her only hope. Once more, her eyes saw no hint of rain, only a shifting sea of leaves and branches. Turning her eyes back to the ground, she reached her trembling hands out for another leaf. A second breeze pushed the rim of her hood against her face as she licked it clean, discarded it, and stood, listening.

Inwardly, she cursed her own stupidity and lack of foresight. If she had drunk some rainwater while it was still raining, she could have avoided the mess she found herself in. But she hadn't thought to drink anything; she had been focused solely on putting distance between herself and the boy from District 7, whom she had narrowly escaped. By the time she realized how thirsty she was, the rain had stopped. At the time, it hadn't seemed so bad; after all, she was in a rainforest, so it was bound to rain again soon. With that mindset, she continued on.

Hour after hour dragged by, each more painfully dry than the last. Her mouth felt as though it had been drained of all moisture by some supernatural force, and a painful throbbing headache began to claw at the inside of her skull, as if demanding attention. It seemed to be in direct competition with her aching muscles, which sought to draw her thoughts to them by burning with pain and threatening to quit on her. She was wearier than she'd ever been before in her life, but she forced herself forward, plodding slowly through the forest toward the sound of the rushing stream. It was obvious to her, even in the impaired mental state caused by her physical anguish, that she was dehydrated, and if she could not drink rainwater, her best hope was to reach the stream as soon as possible. She knew she was lucky to have ended up close enough to the stream to hear it. If she hadn't seen it as she was beamed down into the forest and couldn't hear it, she might never have even realized there was a stream dividing the Hunger Games zone.

Mora walked on, hugging herself with her arms. The forest had always been warm, but it was quite the opposite now; rather than sweating, she was shivering from the cold. She half expected to see snow. She stopped for a brief rest and leaned against a tree. She wanted desperately to sit down, but she didn't think she would be able to get back up. Her right calf had begun to cramp; she reached down and massaged it gently with one hand, mentally willing herself to go on. She knew her family would be glued to their government-issued television, wishing desperately that they could give her some of the water they had easy access to in District 8. She also knew that _he_ would be with her family instead of with his own, trying to maintain his composure. Every time she let her thoughts wander, they inevitably drifted back to him, then away, then back again. If she gave up and accepted death, she would never see him again. That much was readily apparent. She straightened up and continued on, her willpower renewed.

The almost-musical rush of the stream grew steadily louder, until Mora almost couldn't hear the rustle of trees and buzz of insects over its powerful bellow. She knew she couldn't be far. Despite her muscles' protest, she couldn't help but speed up, knowing how close she was to the stream that had become a symbol of survival and hope to her. As it came into view, she almost burst across the last stretch of ground. But just as she started to increase her speed, a flash of movement in the very corner of her vision caught her eye. She froze immediately and focused on its source.

A few dozen feet upstream sat the Witch, kneeling beside the water as she rinsed her long, blonde hair. Mora's eyes fixed on her, unblinking, as fear gripped her chest like a vice. The Witch's spear lay within reach of her right hand, and the short sword she'd taken from the girl from District 1 hung in a sheath at her hip. Mora realized that drinking there was incredibly unsafe. Even if she moved downstream, she was sure that the Witch could track her there. Remaining near the stream while the Witch was there would certainly end in her death. But she couldn't last much longer without water. For a few seconds, she considered risking it; after all, the stream was loud, and the Witch's head was turned away from her. Eventually, her sense of danger overrode her thirst, and she retreated quietly into the forest.

After that, her headache seemed far more painful than before.


	32. Infection

Corae was beginning to realize that something was wrong.

The cut on her hand was a swollen red mound, like the belly of a glutton, filled with pain and whitish pus. A foul smell emanated from it, fouler than anything she'd ever smelled before. The pus had started draining from the wound, covering her entire hand in its sickening stench. She would have liked to wipe it off, but anything pressing against the cut intensified the pain, until it felt like a roaring blaze had consumed her hand. Unsure of what to do about it, just as she was unsure of everything she'd done in the Games, she merely kept the hand at her side and walked on aimlessly. She was again a small child, wandering amongst the towering trees, so steadfast and sure of themselves, while she herself was powerless and naïve and weak.

The painful, throbbing heat in her hand was quickly making its way through her body. It sapped the strength from all of her limbs from within, a metaphysical parasite. She took off her jacket, carefully ensuring that the sleeve didn't touch her palm as the wounded hand came through. She held it loosely by her side in her good hand. Everything felt differently somehow, as if great heavy chains had wrapped themselves around her senses, her body, her mind, making them slow and feeble. Soon, she found herself shivering uncontrollably, despite the intense heat she felt. It unnerved her slightly that she could no longer keep herself from shaking, no matter how hard she tried. The only thing she had been able to control, her body, was beginning to defy her. The revolting smell of the pus and her sweat would have filled her nostrils, but she had unconsciously started breathing through her mouth long ago, taking rapid gasps of air.

The quiet percussion of a drizzle arose, then grew into pounding rain. Corae was grateful to have the rain cool her and wash off some of her sweat, but the water stung her wounded hand like nothing else. It didn't take her long to decide to wrap it in her jacket to reduce the pain. However, she looked down to see that her right hand was empty. She'd dropped the jacket without realizing it. Turning around, she surveyed the ground behind her, but found nothing. She had no idea how long ago she had let go. Sighing, she decided to rest. Without looking for a good spot to sit, she simply dropped to the ground where she stood. Her body still ached and groaned with pain, but she barely noticed over the agonized screaming of her hand. She lay down and closed her eyes, feeling the innumerable, slightly painful impacts of the rain hitting her face. For a little while, she truly believed she was back home in District 11, sleeping in the fields where she should have been working. For those few minutes, despite all that she felt, and all that had happened, she was content.

Suddenly, the great chains ensnaring her mind rattled themselves, demanding to be heard; and she was back, back amongst the indifferent trees that stood vigil over a world of suffering, back under the relentless rain that at once soothed and intensified her agony. She tried to raise her hand in front of her face to see how the wound was progressing, but to no avail. She quickly realized she no longer had the energy to move, let alone stand. Something was wrong. Something was wrong, and that sole idea pervaded her mind.

_I'm going to die like this_, she realized, turning her head to the side so the rain wouldn't hit her eyes. _I'm going to die here, slowly. I'm just going to waste away alone. _Tears started to well up. _I'm going to die alone, suffering to the very end, and there's nothing anyone can do to stop it. _

An eternity seemed to pass. Ten minutes, twenty, thirty, but she never would have known. Minute after minute blended into each other, until there was no difference between being frozen in time and going on forever. Throughout it all, the wound in her hand continued to burn with pain, tormenting her remorselessly. Suddenly, something alien drifted to her. A sound. The sound of footsteps, falling slower and heavier than the thick sheets of rain. She opened her eyes, blinked away her tears, and saw a pair of boots several feet from her face. She managed to turn her head enough to see the face above them. A boy with black hair, looking down at her, an uncertain look on his face. The male tribute from District 12.

Suddenly, she saw a way to cut short her agony. Summoning up her last vestiges of strength, she spoke, loudly enough for him to hear over the rain. "Come closer."

Cirrin hesitated for only a moment. That was all it took for the sincerity and weakness in her voice to overcome his suspicion of a trap. Then he stepped forward and crouched down, to hear her better. Her short hair, thoroughly soaked with rain, clung to the side of her face like red ivy.

"Please," her voice was barely above a whisper, "please kill me. I'm dying. I can't… It hurts. Kill me. Please."

Cirrin was taken aback by her request. He stood back up, completely unsure of what to do. She looked up at his confused, almost panicked face, and knew instantly that he wouldn't kill her. He, like her, despised the idea of ending another's life. At the same time, however, he didn't leave, or even step back. She realized that he wanted neither to kill her nor abandon her to her fate. _You… are one of the few truly kind souls in the Hunger Games._ She might have smiled at her discovery if she had the energy._ A gift: I will end your dilemma for you._ Closing her eyes and lowering her head, she relaxed completely, making herself still. Her breathing was shallow enough to be unnoticeable.

Cirrin stepped back involuntarily. He stared at her, eyes wide. "I – I'm sorry," he muttered in a trembling voice. Then he turned and ran, darting away through the trees.

Though she didn't make a sound, inwardly, Corae sighed. _Looks like I'm going to die alone after all…_ She opened her eyes. Before her lay the orange flower that had fallen out of her hair, tiny droplets of water resting on its five wide petals.

_At least I got to die in the rain._


	33. Alienation

Broad, light-green fronds hung impotently over a group of translucent, cone-shaped, white flowers spread along the length of the remains of a fallen tree. Tiny ants scurried back and forth over the damp moss that covered the parts the flowers hadn't conquered. Their miniscule antennae searched for droplets of water left over from the rain. They scattered when Cirrin sat down on the log, shaking all their little bodies with the impact.

He pulled a jar with mixed nuts out of his backpack, which, like him, was completely soaked from the heavy rain earlier. The jar had previously belonged to the girl from District 10. When he'd seen her face in the previous night's projection of deaths, he had tried not to think too hard about how she might have died. It definitely wasn't starvation; her pack had held a few days' worth of food grabbed from the Cornucopia. Unfortunately, the bread had become soaked in the rain and turned into a soggy soup at the bottom of the backpack. All that remained was a plastic container half-filled with meat, another container with some cheese, and the jar of nuts.

Although he knew he should eat something, he couldn't bring himself to even open the jar. He still felt slightly sick. For the second time, he had watched someone die. Or rather, he'd thought he had. It wasn't until he was a fair distance away from her body before he realized no cannon had fired to signal her death. The Capitol, which constantly monitored each tribute's health, would have fired a cannon as soon as she died. When that realization struck him, he had turned back, only to hear the low boom of the cannon in the distance seconds later. Feeling numb, he'd turned back around and continued trudging through the forest.

He mindlessly passed the jar from hand to hand, deep in thought. How could he have helped her, maybe even saved her? There was no way, especially since he didn't know how she'd gotten that way in the first place. He knew that, and yet he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something that he could have and should have done. Besides fulfilling her request – Cirrin couldn't kill. He refused to entertain the thought. At least, not an unarmed, dying girl. But in self-defense… the idea chilled him. He pushed it away.

He wondered if his family and friends back home would think worse of him when they saw him on TV, abandoning the dying red-headed girl who needed him. His family would understand, of course – he'd thought she was already dead. Cirrin wasn't so sure about his friends. Truthfully, he didn't have many friends; after accidentally killing a peer who bullied him, the other kids tended to avoid him, even though everyone knew it was an accident. He couldn't stand the looks they gave him, especially the children he didn't know personally. What few friends remained were the reason he still enjoyed school. But even they began to act cautious and back away unconsciously when Cirrin got angry. The fact hurt him, but he never gave any sign that he'd noticed their fear.

The incident with the bully had changed everything. Even Cirrin's older brother, the fiery, aggressive teenager who tended to ignore authority of all kinds, adopted a calmer demeanor. Cirrin couldn't imagine that he felt very accomplished when he learned that his advice had led to a child's death. Cirrin's brother didn't blame him, though. No one in his family did. They alone treated him the same way they always had.

For a few moments, Cirrin allowed himself to picture himself returning home to District 12, victorious. How would people treat him then? Would he be even more feared as the sole survivor of the bloodbath that was the Hunger Games? Would people whisper that they weren't surprised, that they'd known about his hidden killer instinct for years? Either way, Cirrin was sure that actually killing any opponents would alienate the last of his friends. They'd be sure to see it, since the Capitol always broadcast deaths of tributes as part of the daily highlight reel they forced everyone in the country to watch. Even then, Cirrin knew his parents and brother would love him as much as they always had. Still, Cirrin resolved to avoid killing unless it was absolutely necessary.

His eyes followed the jar of nuts as he tossed it from hand to hand. Finally, he accepted that his appetite wouldn't be back any time soon and put the jar in his backpack. For another full hour, he sat alone, resting his weary muscles. Then, with a sigh, he picked up his backpack and moved on.


	34. Resolution

Mora's mouth was still dry, and a headache still pounded the inside of her skull, but she was alive. Her suffering had been alleviated by the coming of the rain, but it had faded before she could fully hydrate herself. She lay in the thick branches of a tree, high above the ground. She was still close enough to the stream to hear its gurgling sound. Reaching up carefully, she pulled a nearby branch close and held some of the leaves above her face, gently shaking the branch to make droplets of rainwater fall into her mouth.

She had decided that her best bet for getting enough water was to stay near the stream, hide, and wait until the Witch left. Having recently discovered her talent for climbing trees, her natural choice had been high up, camouflaged by a maze of branches. Since she needed both hands to climb, she'd been forced to hide her trusty pipe in a bush after rubbing it down with dirt to dull its gleam. Shortly after she made her way up to some branches that looked like they could support her weight, the rain had begun. She had gratefully gulped down all that she could, but not nearly enough, and soon drifted to sleep. In fact, she slept right through that night's projection of deaths. By the time she woke up, dawn was spreading its light orange hue across the bits of sky she could see through the forest canopy.

She inwardly cursed herself. Now she had no way of knowing whether the Witch was still at the stream or not. She mentally weighed the risks of climbing down to check. The chances of the Witch still being there weren't too high; after all, there weren't many good places to camp for the night near this part of the stream. However, if Mora was wrong, it would cost her her life. The agony of dehydration eventually swayed Mora. She cautiously started climbing down the way she'd come up, descending slowly back to the forest floor. When she reached it, she immediately retrieved her pipe and clutched it tight.

It was difficult not to abandon stealth and run toward the enticing gurgle of the stream. She had to focus all her will into moving from tree to tree, cover to cover, eyes and ears attentive for any sign of the Witch. When at last she came within sight of the stream, she crouched behind a broad tree trunk and slowly, carefully peeked her head out. Other than the silent, inanimate plants, there was no sign of life at the stream. She couldn't restrain herself any longer. Breaking cover, she ran as quickly as her tired legs could carry her, dropped to her knees beside the stream, and plunged her head into its chilly waters. She eagerly gulped down huge mouthfuls of water, ignoring the frightened fish that swam desperately away from her gaping maw. It felt like nothing she'd ever experienced.

She pulled her head out of the water as her need to breathe overcame her need for water. A second later, she plunged it right back in, continuing to take in greedy mouthfuls of water. When she came up for air again, she sat back, gasping for air, as water dripped down her face and hair. She couldn't help but laugh. She thought about how foolish she'd look to the viewers at home and, despite everything, she laughed. Then she leaned forward and drank in a more restrained fashion, still clutching her pipe in her right hand.

As she drank, she considered the other tributes. How many were left? Having missed the last projection of deaths, she had no idea. Not many, she knew. It was very likely that fewer than half of the original 24 tributes were still alive. Her chances of winning had grown, but that wasn't saying much. She was armed, which was an advantage; but she wanted to avoid having to use her pipe as much as possible. The thought of killing, or even just fighting, another tribute frightened her. She desperately hoped she wouldn't have to, and she was sure that back home, _he _felt the same way. She pictured his face, smiling playfully at her, and unconsciously smiled herself. That was all she wanted: to see that smile again.

_Well,_ she thought, _there are still about a dozen tributes, maybe a little less. Maybe they'll all finish each other off. Maybe I can win without even swinging this thing again!_ She held up her pipe, examining the streaks of dirt that covered it, then lowered it again. She would focus on keeping herself alive first, and evading other tributes second. She would fight only if she had no other options. _And if I just do that… We can be together. I can be with him again._

Her warm thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a loud snap, loud enough to be heard easily even despite the rush of the stream. In an instant, Mora was on her feet, fully alert; her head swung from side to side, eyes frantically searching for the source of the noise. She caught a flash of movement between the trees. For a split second, an image of the Witch flitted across her brain. She dove straight into the stream and swam with all her might, letting the current help her escape as quickly as possible.

Mere seconds later, a short, thickly-built orangutan wandered into the stream. It hadn't fully recovered from the impact of the ground after the branch it had been swinging from broke unexpectedly. It looked around blankly, seeing nothing of interest, and meandered away from the stream.


	35. Illumination

Night hadn't crept up on the forest so much as ambushed it. When Mar opened his eyes, the rainforest was immersed in darkness, penetrated only by the little moonlight that managed to pierce the thick canopy. He knew he couldn't have slept much; it had been late afternoon when he stopped to sleep, and in the few hours he'd rested, he hadn't been able to fall asleep completely. His resting place was rough and uncomfortable, and the leaves and sticks that camouflaged him also trapped his body heat; within minutes, he'd been covered in sweat. On top of that, not long after he'd settled in, a heavy rain had begun pounding his little body, quickly waking him every time he managed to drift off to sleep.

Camouflaging himself wasn't a bad idea, especially since he was now cold from the rain rather than hot. He decided to seek out a more comfortable place to sleep. With a sigh, he got up and looked around. The forest was just bright enough for him to make out shadows and shapes, the vast majority of which were plants. As he squinted at a figure in the distance, a crimson light burst forth from behind him, bathing the forest in its bloody hue. Mar spun around, startled, to see a familiar symbol projected onto the trunk of a tree. It faded out, and in its place appeared the face of the girl from District 11, the one with short red hair. After her was the girl from District 12; at twelve years old, she was the only person in the Games younger than Mar, although she was a little bigger than he was. Not even she had been spared. Mar wasn't surprised; he'd seen a few twelve-year-olds die in previous Hunger Games.

But the other one… the image of the girl from District 11 haunted him. Why had he rejected her offer to team up? Why had he been so afraid of her? He wondered what would have happened if they had teamed up. Would she still be alive? There was no way of knowing. Mar just hoped that he hadn't caused her death. The idea of ending another tribute's life, even accidentally, was horrible enough; but she hadn't attacked him or tried to cause him harm in any way. He sighed and pushed her out of his mind, occupying himself with thoughts of finding a place to sleep.

Mar spent the next half hour wandering amongst the trees, looking for a decent spot to rest. He made slow progress, partially because he couldn't quite see where he was going and partially because he saw danger lurking in every shadow. He considered giving up on comfort and just picking a nearby spot, after thoroughly checking it for anything that might harm him. Then he saw it: in the dim moonlight, he could make out a sizeable pile of leaves, sticks, and underbrush. It was more than enough to cover him completely. He quickly made his way over to it, keeping his eyes on the ground in front of him so he wouldn't trip. When glanced looked back up at the pile, something caught his eye. He froze.

All was still. For a moment, he convinced himself that he was just seeing things. Then a section of the pile rose, as if something beneath it was swelling. It fell, then rose again. Mar was beginning to notice a rhythm to its movements. It was breathing, he realized. Or rather, a tribute beneath it was. Someone else had thought to use underbrush as camouflage just as he had.

For almost a minute, he watched the rise and fall of the pile, too terrified to move. He took a tiny, careful step back. _Stay calm,_ he urged himself. _I just need to get away as quietly… as…. possible._

He took another step back without turning around, then another. His foot hit something on the dark forest floor, and before he could stop himself, he crashed to the ground. He immediately raised his head to look at the sleeping tribute. The pile was beginning to stir. Panicking, he scrambled to his feet. He turned to run, but he realized there was no way he could dash through the forest at night without falling and injuring himself. And an injury now could mean certain death later. He froze in place, watching the shifting pile of underbrush. To his horror, the tribute underneath sat up and reached for something.

Mar immediately shot toward the nearest tree and hid behind it, trembling. "Who's there?" the tribute's voiced called out. It was a male. Mar desperately hoped it wasn't a Career. He heard a quiet hiss, which turned into the crackle of flame as soft orange light bathed the area. The light started to grow brighter as the tribute approached his tree. Mar clenched his teeth tight to prevent himself from screaming. _Please don't come here. Please, please look somewhere else…_

But the tribute kept moving closer, and Mar quickly realized that he would round the tree in seconds. Using the light to approximate the tribute's position, Mar slowly, carefully moved around the trunk of the tree. The crackle of the source of light was unnervingly loud. The tribute walked all the way around the tree, with Mar moving to keep the tree between them the entire way. When Mar reached his original spot behind the trunk, the light stopped moving. Slowly, the light started to grow dimmer as the tribute moved away.

For a second, Mar clenched his jaw and eyes shut, gathering his courage. Then he carefully peeked out from behind the tree. The tribute was facing away from him, holding a torch aloft. Mar recognized him as the boy from District 10. Not a Career, but still a potential danger. Mar quietly slipped to a tree that was slightly farther away from the boy. Then he moved to another tree, and another, until the dim light of the torch was no longer in view. When he thought he was safe, Mar collapsed, his face in his hands. Then, with a sigh, he began to gather leaves and other underbrush into a pile. He'd had enough searching.


	36. Exhilaration

Dawn broke quietly over the forest on the sixth day of the Hunger Games.

Alone in a tiny clearing lay the male tribute from District 7. Small blond hairs had begun to regrow on his formerly bare scalp, but Tarras was too far away to notice them. A tarp was stretched between trees above his head; its center sagged from the weight of the rainwater that had collected on it. In his right hand, he clenched the handle of his machete tightly, even in sleep. Nearby lay a black messenger bag carrying his supplies.

From her vantage point in a branch above the clearing, Tarras couldn't see any of his traps, but she knew beyond doubt that they were there. When she first tracked him to his camp, she had almost triggered one inadvertently. Despite all her training and practice, she had come very close to dying that day. Instead, she had caught sight of a tripwire, thinner than spider's silk, and stopped in time to save herself.

By the time she'd finally caught up to him, night had fallen, and he was fast asleep, protected by the multitude of traps that Tarras didn't dare try to locate. It was much safer to withdraw and ambush him outside the camp. She'd spent an hour searching for the right spot to stage the ambush before settling on a tactic her trainers had taught her, one that had been attempted three times in previous Games and had been successful once. She just hoped she had measured out the rope correctly, or the results could be disastrous.

Below her, her spear was planted blade-first in the dark soil, rising diagonally out of the ground. Beside it lay her pack; she'd taken out some of the supplies and hidden them nearby, just in case another tribute happened to stumble upon the pack while she waited. She had positioned the spear and pack so that the spot directly under her branch was between the boy's clearing and her belongings. A rope secured her ankle to the base of the branch; most of its length was coiled around her shoulders and arms so it wouldn't droop down, potentially alerting the boy to her presence. Her left hand impatiently tapped the pommel of her short sword; she had been crouching on the branch for hours, and her legs were sore.

At last, he began to stir. She immediately straightened up and focused all her attention on him. Slowly, he rose and stretched, yawning complacently. He walked a few feet to his right, crouched down, and began moving something with the hand that wasn't holding his machete. He was disarming his traps. A wise move, Tarras reflected. If he were forced to flee to his campsite during the day, he wouldn't risk triggering one of his own traps.

As he moved toward the tree that hid Tarras, disarming traps along the way, the shape of the spear caught his eye. He raised his machete cautiously and began to move toward it to investigate, eyes fixed on the spear. Above, Tarras quietly, slowly stood up straight, drawing her short sword as she did so. She faced the same direction as him. Her right arm held out her sword, pointed directly forward; her left hand gathered and held the section of rope wrapped around her shoulders. She listened carefully, waiting for him to pass under her branch. When she thought he was in position, she dropped the extra rope and held the sword with both hands. Less than a second later, she bent her knees and leapt forward.

Her world became a blur of green and brown as air rushed past her ears and sent her long braid flying behind her. She fell toward the ground, still holding out her sword in front of her with both hands. Just as she planned, the rope stretched taut before she hit the ground, causing her to swing in an arc toward the boy from District 7. He had no time to react; in an instant, she was in front of him, her momentum driving the sword through his chest. His legs gave out, and he collapsed backward. She swung back and forth over his body, holding her braid out of the way as she looked toward the ground to ensure that she'd killed him. His eyes were open and he appeared to still be breathing, but he wasn't moving. He was as good as dead. She reached up toward her ankle and started to pull herself up the rope.

When she had untied the rope and climbed back down, she immediately went to retrieve her spear and pack. Just as she slung the pack over her shoulder, a cannon sounded in the distance. Sure enough, when she reached the boy, all signs of life had ceased. The final look on his face was not the look of shock he'd worn immediately after she stabbed him; it was merely a cold stare, as if to tell her that his death didn't faze him.

Looking down at his corpse was bittersweet for Tarras. One of the few sensations she truly loved was that of a plan working perfectly. Inwardly, she was proud of her flawless planning and execution of a daring maneuver. And the fact that she'd bested another tribute in the process made her victory all the sweeter. But she found herself longing for the training exercises, when outwitting and defeating an opponent usually didn't mean death. At times, training was almost a game. Despite the name, however, the Hunger Games were not so forgiving. Many deaths had occurred in them, and more would occur before she could wash her hands of the entire thing. Some would be by her own hand.

Putting her foot on the corpse's stomach, she pulled out her sword and wiped it clean on her dead adversary's pants. She looked over the area around the boy's campsite, where an undetermined number of traps still lay. Disarming them would be risky, but ultimately manageable, thanks to the daylight shining through the canopy. Since she could repurpose them to catch food, the risk would be worth the reward. She first retrieved her spear and her supplies; with them nearby, she began the time-consuming task of combing the area for traps.


	37. Attention

When Cirrin had first seen the forest, his initial impression had been that it was dominated by the dense, gargantuan trees that reached their great green limbs into the thick canopy high above. Five days living in the forest had corrected his view; it was dominated not by the mighty trees, but by the legions of insects to which every inch of the forest seemingly belonged. They moved in their erratic, mindless patterns, utterly ignorant of any reason they should not go or do as they pleased. They walked up and down tree trunks, settled in branches, but most of all, they wandered the spongy forest floor. Cirrin had grown used to feeling their tiny legs dance across his skin, crawling underneath his jacket sleeves and pant legs. They grew especially numerous when he slept on the forest floor; it had become almost a morning ritual to stand up and shake off the little creatures that roamed his body. So when he awoke on the sixth day of the Games to feel a multitude of insects creeping across his flesh, nothing immediately struck him as wrong.

Then he awoke fully, and the loudest buzz he'd ever heard filled his ears.

When he realized what was happening, sheer disbelief was the only thing that stopped him from panicking. He sat up slowly, eyes wide, senses alert, all confirming what he had concluded.

His torso and parts of his arms and legs were coating in a thick, shifting layer of bees. More bees filled the space around him, their wings saturating the air with a low buzz. Some of them began to crawl up his neck, causing him to instinctively lift his chin to keep them away from his face. His pulse quickened with fear. He willed himself to calm down; unconsciously, he clenched his jaw tight. He carefully and slowly rose to his feet.

His mind was racing. Where had they come from? Cirrin knew his campsite hadn't had a beehive near it. He'd combed the area for hazards before going to sleep. The only explanation he could think of was interference by the Gamemakers. They often used the Capitol's technology to spice things up for the viewers. The current Head Gamemaker, who had been appointed just after the previous year's Games, was known for advocating a conservative approach to interference. But that didn't mean he wouldn't imperil a tribute if the Capitol's citizens got bored.

Cirrin pushed aside his search for an explanation. It didn't matter. The situation demanded his full attention. He knew from experience that bees could be safely driven off by the smoke created by burning a termite nest. But did termites live in the forest? It would make sense, given the abundance of trees, but he couldn't be sure. Still, it was his only hope. Doing his best to avoid sudden movements, he slowly walked among the trees. He left his backpack behind; picking it up might have aggravated the bees that he was sure filled its interior.

Cirrin remembered from previous Games that when the Gamemakers deliberately put a tribute in danger, they often provided a way out, to keep things exciting. He reasoned that if there was a termite nest he could use, it would be near his campsite. However, an hour of slowly, deliberately circling the campsite found him nothing. He felt himself sweating under his clothes and the layers of insect bodies coating him. Doubt began to tug at his resolve. But since he had no alternatives, he continued his search. He was keenly aware that the smallest jerking movement could be enough to send the swarm into a frenzied attack.

Finally, he saw it: a dark brown, rounded glob clinging to a thin tree trunk four feet above the ground. He approached it carefully, paying attention to each footstep. When he reached the nest, he checked his hands for any bees that might get crushed and sting him. Then he grabbed two handfuls of the termite nest. His right hand accidentally squeezed too hard, causing the piece of nest in it to crumble to bits; he dropped it and tried again, taking more care not to crush the piece. He spent the next fifteen minutes making his way back to his campsite.

The bees hung there like a living cloud, filling the space with a dense buzz. Cirrin took a few careful steps through the swarm, eyes closed. He set down the pieces of termite nest in a sunbeam that pierced through the canopy to the forest floor. He then made his way over to his backpack and crouched down. With trembling hands, he unclipped the top flap and peered inside; sure enough, it was filled with bees. He reached inside with great care, gripped part of his magnifying glass that wasn't covered in bees, and lifted it out of the pack. Most of the bees on it were scared off by the movement, leaving him free to hold it by the handle.

When he had returned to the termite nest, he held the magnifying glass up to the sun and focused a narrow beam of light onto the pieces of termite nest. He wished he could gather some twigs and leaves to help get the fire going, but that simply wasn't an option. Thankfully, the ground was littered with leaves, some of which were still dry. In a few minutes, he'd created a little fire that had spread to both handfuls of nest. They sent skyward a light brown smoke. Cirrin stood almost directly in it, trying desperately to suppress his urge to cough. In seconds, the bees began to flee his body, taking flight into the clear air beyond him.

Relieved, Cirrin stepped out of the smoke and allowed himself to cough. Then he retrieved his backpack and began to hold it over the smoke. Without thinking, he turned the bag over above the flames. Instantly, two things happened: first, his few possessions fell onto the tiny fire, quenching it easily; second, the bees on those objects rose, a vengeful buzz pouring from their little bodies, and started to sting Cirrin's legs. He jumped back and yelped in pain, prompting more frightened bees to attack him. In moments, he was the object of the swarm's collective wrath, futilely swinging his arms at the shifting cloud of insects.

With constant pain erupting across his skin, all thoughts were gone except the urge to escape. He tore through the trees, swatting desperately at the bees that followed him, continually assaulting him with their venom-filled stingers. Cirrin barely knew where he was going. He couldn't keep cries of pain and fear from rising out of his throat. After what seemed like days of agony, he realized he could hear the rush of the stream; without hesitation, he ran toward it. His feet didn't stop moving until he'd plunged headlong into the water, scraping his chest against rocks that littered the bottom. He held his breath as long as he could; the bees clinging to him quickly drowned and were carried away by the current. When he could no longer hold his breath, he surfaced, taking in huge gulps of air. The rest of the bees were nowhere to be found.

He dragged himself out of the water and flopped down on the bank, breathing heavily. Raised bumps across his skin peppered his brain with itching pain. He quickly lost track of time. His day had not started well. Eventually, with a sigh, he got to his feet. His hair and skin had dried for the most part. Shoulders slumped, past the point of caring about danger or other tributes, he made his way back to his campsite.


	38. Civilization

When Devorac reached the edge of the trees, he took a moment to carefully survey the strip between the tree line and the edge of the sheer cliff that marked the west boundary of the Hunger Games zone. Then he emerged, hefting his axe in case his visual scan had missed something. When he was sure that he was alone, he walked closer to the cliff and surveyed the land beyond it.

A rough brown edge stretched horizontally in front of him; beyond, a sea of treetops shook in the chilly wind. Before the Capitol had artificially raised the area where the Games would be played, the canopy above had been part of the one below. Devorac peered down at the rock-studded cliff face and spat over the edge. In some previous years, anything that fell off a cliff was propelled right back up by repulsion technology. However, Devorac's spit plummeted into the forest below, just as he'd thought. The new Head Gamemaker preferred not to interfere, and the lack of repulsion was in keeping with that philosophy.

Devorac stepped back and looked around. No tributes or even suspicious movement met his eyes. He'd been wrong about other tributes heading straight for the edges of the arena. Perhaps the slaughter of the past few days was to blame; over six days, two-thirds of the tributes had died, leaving only eight left. His chances of finding anyone were, of course, reduced accordingly.

He sighed and sat down to eat. As he popped a chunk of meat into his mouth, he stared mindlessly at the stretch of green below. He supposed some would consider it beautiful, but he didn't much care for such things. He had business to accomplish before he could sit and enjoy anything, though he was frustrated that there was nothing to do at the moment. In an effort to feel productive, he reminded himself that nourishment was essential to his eventual victory. He sighed and bit off another piece of meat.

"At last!"

In an instant, both hands were grasping the axe as he stood and turned in one fluid motion. The meat sat in his mouth, forgotten for the time being.

Before him stood a smiling young man who looked to be around sixteen. His blond hair was cut short. His frame was lean, but Devorac knew immediately that he had to have pounds of solid muscle packed underneath that jacket. For he was the male tribute from District 1, a Career Tribute representing the district best known for its Careers. He had a pack slung over one shoulder, and a sheathed rapier hung from his belt. On his right hip, a hatchet had been tucked into his belt. His posture and smile exuded confidence.

Devorac quickly swallowed the piece of meat.

"I finally found someone!" he exclaimed triumphantly, his eyes gleaming. "And a fellow Career at that! Oh, this is going to be interesting! In fact, this almost makes up for the complete lack of action so far. Have you been getting to everyone first or something? I haven't found anyone at all. Six days of camping and scavenging, not an opponent in sight… well, until now."

Devorac noted his use of the word _opponent_ over alternatives like _tribute_ or even _enemy_. District 1 was known for its psychological conditioning of its tributes, and this boy was likely one of the program's greatest successes. "Are you going to attack me?"

The boy playfully feigned offense. "Without having introduced myself, or waited until you were ready? Never! I'm no savage. No, I'll let you put away your food there, and then we'll fight to the death like civilized people." He indicated the hunk of beef sitting on the ground next to Devorac's open pack. Devorac looked him over; he was showing no signs of aggression or tension. Convinced that the boy was telling the truth, Devorac stepped backward to his pack, never taking his eyes off the other Career. He carefully put the meat back in and pulled out the cleaver, tucking it into his belt. There was no way of hiding it from the boy, so he didn't even try to. He took off his jacket and tossed it down next to his pack; the boy made no motion to do the same.

"The name's Boorda Kint," he called out. "You'll understand if I don't shake your hand." When Devorac made no response, he added, "What's yours?"

Devorac glared at him coldly for a few seconds. The boy met his gaze. He grunted, "Devorac."

"No last name?" Boorda inquired. Devorac remained silent, choosing instead to raise his axe. Boorda smiled and drew his rapier. The slim silver blade gleamed with light unblocked by the forest canopy. "You want to get straight to the action. I get that. You're a man after my own heart, Mr. Devorac."

For some reason, Devorac disliked that comment. "I'm going to kill you, but only for the sake of the poor and needy in District 2. On behalf of their many lives, yours must end."

Boorda shrugged. "Whatever. I'll kill you because I want to. Whatever my district gets is a fringe benefit. I'm here for the thrills and kills, and even though you can only give me one kill, I'm sure there will be plenty of thrills to make up for it." He pointed his rapier at Devorac.

He wasn't lying. Devorac could tell from his body language. Boorda was almost shaking, like he was gaining energy from thinking about the impending fight. His body was tensed up, his sword arm extended. A sly grin appeared on his lips.

"Ready?"


	39. Subversion

Seven.

Mar sat on a colossal root, one of many radiating from a huge tree. He knew his little body could fit inside the root at least twice over. He wished it were hollow, and that he really could crawl in and hide until the Games were over. _Eight tributes left. Minus me, that's seven other tributes. Seven. _He took a deep breath. _Seven. I can do seven. But how many of them are Careers? _He could only recall one Career showing up in the nightly projection of deaths: the girl from District 1, dead on the first day. There were normally six Careers, but since Mar had taken the place of one of them, that was five. Five minus the girl from District 1 left 4 Careers out of the 7 remaining tributes. Over half of Mar's remaining enemies were Careers. Mar groaned quietly and put his face in his hands.

His only hope of winning was if the remaining tributes, Careers included, wiped each other out. But no Careers had died since the first day of the Games. Mar couldn't help but wonder how she died. The Games hadn't been going on long, so starvation and dehydration were both out. Accidental deaths of Careers were extremely rare; their training in survival was extensive. That would leave combat as the most likely cause of her death. He wondered if another Career had killed her. He couldn't imagine an untrained tribute managing it; after all, the Careers' training in combat, too, was extensive.

In previous years, the Careers had dominated the Games. Banding together on the first day, they would roam the arena hunting down other tributes one-by-one, like a pack of wolves looking for an easy meal. Normal tributes lived their last few days in terror of being found and slaughtered by the Careers. Viewers in the Capitol got a tense game of cat-and-mouse; the grand finale inevitably consisted of the Careers turning on each other in a frenetic melee consisting only of that year's best fighters. It was their favorite form of entertainment. But what had changed this year? Had Mar's presence in place of a Career somehow unbalanced the group dynamics? Mar saw no reason why they couldn't team up with five instead of six. Mar wasn't sure whether or not to be grateful that they hadn't teamed up. On one hand, had they teamed up, there would be almost no hope of them killing each other off before they killed Mar. On the other hand, with them split up, Mar was five – well, four – times more likely to run into a Career.

And what would he do if that happened? Mar couldn't even imagine a scenario in which he was found by a Career and yet made it out alive. From the moment they could first walk, the Careers had been training, drilling and studying, all for this event. Mar had done almost nothing that would prepare him for the Games. He'd never even so much as gotten into a fistfight with a classmate. And now, without a weapon, body weak from hunger and thirst, he was supposed to win against an athletic, well-trained, armed opponent? And, assuming he even survived such an encounter, outlast three more of them as well? He wouldn't even know what to do against a regular tribute. Getting anywhere near anyone else, armed or not, trained or not, would probably spell the end for him. If that someone else were a Career, which, given the odds, was more likely than not, his death was guaranteed.

Mar looked down at his hands, which had started trembling. "No," he whispered to himself. "Stop that. Stop that!" He stood up and paced in a circle, willing his unruly body to calm itself. _If even the idea of fighting a Career can do this to me, _he wondered, _do I really have a chance of subverting the Career dynasty? _He was certain that, at the very least, he could never kill the Witch. If even half the rumors about her were true, she was easily the most dangerous tribute to compete in recent years, maybe even in the history of the Games. No, he could never kill her, as his friend had urged him to do in the minutes after his selection for the Games. He could only hope that the other Careers, sensing what a threat she was, ganged up on her, and that all of them were slaughtered in the resulting clash.

Mar's stomach rumbled audibly, cutting into his train of thought. He looked down at it. _Well, I definitely won't have a chance if I starve to death before the Careers get to me_, he mused. With that less-than-comforting thought, he decided to look for food. Straying from the gargantuan tree, he scanned the area for something to eat, especially something he'd eaten before.


	40. Exhaustion

Above Cirrin's head, layers of leaves shifted as the branches were blown about by the wind. The hollow whistling it made competed with the screeching of monkeys and the low buzz of insects. Cirrin found that buzz grating on his nerves, although it had been easy to ignore the day before. It wasn't even noon yet, but he was exhausted.

He sat in the middle of his campsite, leafing through his plant guide. Angry red bumps dotted his skin, the mark of the bees that had swarmed his flesh courtesy of the Gamemakers. Thankfully, they had abandoned his campsite by the time he got back from the stream, their purpose complete. He had immediately retrieved his plant guide. Surely in this vast forest, there was a plant that could treat his stings.

As he turned a page, a burst of color leapt at his eyes. He stopped and examined the picture. It was a bright orange flower with five wide petals. _Tropaeolum majus_, the description said. Antibacterial. Useful for disinfecting wounds. Cirrin wondered if that meant it would help his bee stings. Probably not, he decided. With a sigh, he kept looking.

He scanned the description of each plant's properties, spending only two or three seconds on each page. Just as he was about to turn a page, the word "stings" caught his eye. He stopped himself and read the description. _Useful for treating insect stings and bites_. He looked at the plant. It looked like green, leafy bush on a sort of stem, although the book listed it as around eight feet tall. Above the drawing was its scientific name, _Casearia sylvestris._ The book gave directions for crushing up the leaves into a paste to treat stings.

Cirrin quickly gathered his things and set off in a random direction, scanning the area for any sign of the plant. He held the book out in front of him so he could compare anything he saw to the drawing. The stings burned with pain, as if indignant at his attempts to ignore them. He gritted his teeth. There was nothing he could do about them for now.

It took him what seemed like hours. He tried to use the plants to distract him from his pain, but as time went by, the leaves and trunks and branches all seemed to blend together. Taking a break to clear his head would mean prolonging his suffering. Cirrin wandered so far that before he knew it, the ground before him seemed to drop away. He paused at the edge of the forest, blinking. The ground _did_ drop away. He had reached the northern edge of the Hunger Games zone.

Cirrin was startled. He hadn't realized how far he had walked. For a moment, he felt something like despair at the idea of having to turn around and pick a different direction. Then he caught a glimpse of green out of the corner of his eye. There he saw a tree that resembled a puffy green bush on a stem, rooted in the ground at the very edge of the cliff. He held up his book. The plant didn't look exactly like the drawing, but the two were alike enough that there was no mistaking it. He'd found what he needed.

As he approached the tree, he noticed something strange. A deep crack ran through the ground between him and the jagged edge of the cliff where the plant was rooted. Cirrin's stings screamed at him to ignore it and go to the plant, but his survival instinct won out. Cautiously, he approached the crack. He put one foot over it and carefully shifted his weight, testing the strength of the section of cliff. The last thing he wanted was for it to crumble away with him standing on it. Cirrin shifted his weight from one foot to the other several times, and the ground passed his test each time. He stepped back, set down his backpack, and stepped forward again. He took a deep breath and cautiously stepped over the crack. The ground beneath him held. He took another step toward the plant.

With a muffled crack, the chunk of cliff fragmented and fell away. Cirrin instinctively reached up toward the cliff edge as he fell, but grasped only air. His arms shot outward toward the cliff wall, his eyes desperately searching for something to prevent his fall. As he plummeted, he saw a large rock jutting out. The instant he saw it, both arms reached for it. His left hand managed to latch on. He dangled from the rock, legs flailing in empty space. He saw a smaller jutting piece of rock and grabbed it with his right hand. He soon found footholds for both his feet.

Temporarily safe, he took a few moments to catch his breath. He then looked up, identifying potential handholds and footholds. It took him ten minutes of carefully testing handholds and pulling himself up to reach solid ground again. He crawled away from the cliff edge and lay down next to his pack, breathing heavily. He no longer even cared about the plant or his stings. It had been a long day already.


	41. Elimination

Devorac's glare was cold and hard. Boorda Kint flashed him a smug smile beneath his short blond hair. Both of them were outwardly relaxed, but inwardly tense. Devorac's heart was racing, but his mind was clear. To him, at that moment, one thing existed, only one thing mattered: the young man that stood before him, intending to carve his heart out with that thin little rapier. This was a fight to the death.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Devorac's mouth opened, and a vicious roar tore from his throat. Boorda darted forward, pointing his rapier at Devorac's chest. Devorac responded by swinging wide with his axe. The strike would miss, he knew, but it stopped Boorda from committing to his attack. Devorac followed up with a downward strike, which Boorda avoided by jumping backward. The two circled each other, weapons raised, eyes locked. Boorda darted forward again, coming in low. He stabbed at Devorac's left leg with his rapier. Devorac half-turned and pulled his leg away, then feinted a swing to keep Boorda back. As Boorda retreated, Devorac suddenly came forward with a blow that could decapitate a giant. Boorda ducked the axe easily and rolled to his left, coming smoothly to his feet at the end of the roll.

He was no longer smiling, but wore a determined look, similar to Devorac's. The two circled each other again, evaluating their options and their opponent's weaknesses. Boorda darted forward again, closing the gap between the two Careers in an instant. He thrust his rapier at Devorac's thigh, managing to get in a shallow stab before being forced to retreat by Devorac's counterattack.

It was apparent to Devorac that the lighter, smaller Boorda was also much more agile than him. Boorda seemed to be concentrating on attacking Devorac's legs, increasing his mobility advantage further. If Devorac could get in a blow with his axe, it would be devastating and probably end the fight; but the chances of that were low. The axe was big and heavy, and Boorda was skilled at dodging attacks. The spike on the bottom of the axe's handle, however, might land.

His decision made, Devorac feinted a swing; Boorda, however, didn't move, having been trained to recognize feints. Immediately, Devorac pulled the axe back for a wide horizontal swing, which he aimed as if he was only going to clip the top of Boorda's skull. When Boorda ducked, Devorac used all his strength to thrust the handle spike-first at a downward angle.

In an instant, Boorda dove between Devorac's legs, rolling smoothly to his feet. Devorac quickly spun around, swinging his axe, but he wasn't fast enough. The rapier pierced his upper left arm, sending an icy pain shooting through his nerves to his brain. An involuntary cry of pain sprung from his lips. His left hand let go of the axe, and it fell to the ground head-first, his right hand still clutching the handle. Not even he was strong enough to wield the heavy axe one-handed. He let the handle slip out of his fingers.

Devorac caught a glimpse of the end of the rapier sticking out of his arm, his blood collected in lines across it like veins. For a moment, he wondered why Boorda didn't just pull it out. Then he saw the tip lengthen as Boorda shoved it in deeper, straight toward Devorac's torso. Instinctively, he lifted his left arm above his head, yanking the rapier out of Boorda's hands. He lashed out with a front kick to keep Boorda at bay while he pulled the rapier out with his right hand. Boorda jumped back to avoid the kick, then moved forward and lunged for his weapon. Devorac had pulled it out completely, but Boorda was close enough to reach out and grab it. With no time to think, he flung the weapon behind him, right off the cliff.

"No!" Boorda yelled, but it was too late. Realizing that his rapier was gone, he smoothly converted his lunge into a leaping knee that connected with Devorac's sternum. Devorac gasped, but no air filled his lungs. He reached out and grabbed Boorda's hair to give himself enough time to recover. Boorda reached for the back of his own belt, and Devorac had just enough time to let go before a hatchet sailed through the space where his hand had just been. Devorac threw another front kick, landing it and shoving Boorda back. His right hand drew the cleaver he'd taken from the girl from District 12.

The two circled each other cautiously once more, closer than before. Devorac's left arm hung uselessly by his side, blood streaming down its length. He had forgotten entirely about his leg wound thanks to the adrenaline pounding through his veins. The speed advantage was not quite as prominent, but it was still Boorda's. Devorac lowered the cleaver, silently daring Boorda to attack. He knew Boorda wouldn't take the bait; it was merely a show of confidence, a sign that he was not yet defeated.

After a tense minute of sizing up the situation, Devorac took the initiative. He swung downward with the cleaver, hitting only air as Boorda easily ducked out of the way. Immediately, he swung it back up to discourage a counterattack. Boorda responded with a feint. Just when Devorac had settled back out of range, Boorda leapt forward, aiming for Devorac's right hand. Instead of backing up, Devorac moved forward, too close for the hatchet to land, and underhooked Boorda's right arm with his left. Boorda instantly broke the clinch, pushing Devorac away with his free hand and backing away. Devorac followed him, swinging at his face with the cleaver.

Too late, he realized his mistake.

The hatchet bit into his wrist diagonally, severing the nerves controlling his fingers. The cleaver fell from his now-useless hand.

Devorac leapt back as far as he could, but the damage was done. Blood poured over his palm and his lifeless fingers, but he didn't feel it. His eyes were wild; Boorda's shone with triumph. Desperate plans to win the fight flashed through his mind alongside images of his death at Boorda's hands. He had no more weapons, besides his badly-damaged body. There were none nearby. Nothing he could use, except…

It took him a split second to accept his fate and decide his course of action. His face hardened into a look of grim defiance that caused Boorda to hesitate in delivering the killing blow. If Boorda realized what he was going to do, it was over. Cautiously, Devorac sidestepped, circling Boorda. Unconsciously, Boorda followed, suddenly wary.

Devorac knew to stop when he could see no trees behind Boorda, only the vast expanse of the sky. The forest was there, but far below.

With a fierce roar, he charged straight at Boorda. He barely noticed the hatchet blade biting into his flesh, over and over. With his right arm, he reached under Boorda's left armpit and up toward his right shoulder. Clutching his opponent firmly to himself, he pushed with all his might.

Boorda's eyes grew wide as he caught on. "S – Stop!" he shouted. "You'll kill us both!"

Devorac pushed harder. He grunted, "That's the plan." He would die; he was sure of that. But he was not his district's only hope. The female tribute from District 2 was alive, and Devorac saw a final opportunity to help his district by eliminating a deadly enemy for her.

Boorda pushed back, but his resistance was meaningless against Devorac's size and raw power. Panic gripped him tight; he clearly hadn't expected to die. "You'll die too!" he screamed, his right hand a blur as it swung the hatchet home again and again. He started to lose his grip as Devorac's blood flowed over the weapon and his hand.

They were only a few feet from the edge of the cliff. Devorac spat through gritted teeth, "My dream will outlive us both." He summoned up the last scraps of strength held in his body, preparing to unleash them. "But yours DIES HERE!"

With that final roar, he threw all he had against his opponent. Boorda's legs gave way beneath them, and the two of them sailed off the edge of the cliff.

_Don't let me down now. You're their last hope. Win the Games in my place, and bring prosperity to District 2._

Far off, in the distance, two cannons sounded, one after the other.


	42. Humiliation

A cool breeze blew through the forest, carrying with it the sounds and smells of myriad animals and insects. Mostly blocked by the dense foliage, it carried barely enough strength to move Tarras's braid. She didn't notice as she scanned the floor for signs of a snare she had laid. She found it in the same position she'd left it in the previous day. So it hadn't captured anything, but at least no animals had triggered it and then escaped. Picking up her pack once more, she moved on.

As she drew closer to the next snare, the wind carried a loud, high-pitched screech to her ears. For a second, Tarras thought it was another tribute in the midst of being killed; but as the screech rang out again and again, it became obvious that its origin was not human. Tarras doubled her pace in anticipation of a fresh meal. With every step, the screech grew louder and louder, until it almost hurt her ears.

Finally, she saw the source of the racket. A lemur jumped and screamed, its black and white striped tail fluttering about uselessly. Around one of its ankles was a small piece of rope, tethering it to a nearby sapling. A human would likely have had the strength to simply rip the sapling out of the ground, but the lemur's small muscles were powerless to free it. It shrieked and thrashed helplessly.

Tarras was careful not to be too eager; she knew the sound might have attracted other tributes. As she scanned the area, a hint of movement caught her eye. A jaguar emerged from the underbrush and walked coolly toward the trapped lemur, which somehow managed to scream even louder. The jaguar's tail flicked back and forth casually, its smooth muscles flowing under the spotted fur. As it sauntered toward the lemur, it caught wind of Tarras and turned its head to eye her. The expression on its face seemed unconcerned.

Tarras hesitated. Was it worth fighting the jaguar for the lemur? The jaguar was obviously bigger, stronger, and faster, but she was smarter and had the reach of the spear on her side. Plus, if she killed the jaguar she would have far more meat than she would need to survive until the end of the Games. While she wasn't sure she would win a fight with the jaguar, she was fairly confident in her skills.

Something in the almost lazy expression in the jaguar's eyes reminded her of something from years ago. She quickly identified the memory it conjured, and an image of a boy with short brown hair sprang to mind. He had been an Avox, a convicted criminal whose sentence was a lifetime of servitude and the removal of his tongue. Back in District 4, this particular Avox had been assigned to serve Tarras. For some reason, his calm, almost lethargic demeanor irked her from the day she met him. Back then, they were both thirteen years old.

Tarras recalled how merciless she'd been toward him. Having been informed that she was in all respects superior to him, she had never hesitated to yell at him or berate him. Once, when he brought her lukewarm tea, she'd gone so far as to shove him into the wall, spilling the tea over his clothes and the floor. Furious, he had punched her in the gut with all his might, then stormed out of the room, leaving her on her hands and knees, gasping for breath.

Tarras remembered how humiliated she felt at that moment, huddled on the floor. Her humiliation had quickly given way to fury, and a few hours later, she had found him and attacked him from behind. That was the first time she had been knocked out. She didn't remember any of the actual fight, only that she woke up a minute later on the ground, alone and confused.

That day, her worldview had shifted a little. Suddenly, she was not so sure that she was so far above everyone else, no matter what her trainers and their evaluations said. It caused her no little despair, but she was forced to admit that the Avox boy might actually have been a better fighter than her. The next day, she had requested him as a training partner. They had given her paperwork to fill out, evaluating his skill as a fighter as well as her own.

She didn't see him again for three weeks. Then one day, her trainers led her to a small room with a large rack of weapons against one wall. The Avox boy was already there, clutching a halberd tightly with both hands. Her trainers told her that only one of them would be allowed to leave the room alive, then locked the door. She had never killed a human being before that day.

She had learned two lessons from the incident with Avox boy: that she should not trust her trainers or overestimate her own ability. As she stared down the jaguar, she wondered if the second lesson was applicable in her current situation. After a tense minute, the jaguar returned its attention to the lemur. Tarras slowly backed away and started to move around the jaguar's position.

As she did so, the lemur's piercing cries suddenly vanished, leaving empty space in the air.


	43. Desperation

The stream gurgled loudly, but serenely, as insects buzzed above the surface. A few small silver fish eyed them from below, their feeble brains trying to think of a way to get their meal. Both fish and insects scattered suddenly as Mora swam through them. Reaching out her left hand, she grabbed a rock jutting out of the stream near one bank. She then heaved herself onto it and made the short leap to the bank, where she knelt, breathing heavily.

She had no idea what had caused the noise that sent her fleeing into the stream, but whatever it was, she had put a considerable distance between it and herself. She took a deep breath and peered upstream, the way she'd come. She half expected the Witch to swim around the bend in hot pursuit any second, but no one appeared. When she was satisfied that she hadn't been followed, she stood. Her clothes and hair were soaking wet, dripping a considerable amount of water onto the ground. She decided to find a nice, broad sunbeam to relax and dry off in.

As she wandered away from the stream, a beam of golden light caught her eye. She looked upward at the gap in the canopy that it shone through and followed it with her eyes to the forest floor. Awestruck by the beauty of the scene, a smile spread across her face. She couldn't help but bound into the sunbeam, barely even noticing that her right hand still clutched the lead pipe.

No sooner had she reached it than she heard the sound of something rustling in the underbrush. She was alert, but not too concerned; a number of animals had already scared her that way during her time in the Games. The rustling grew louder and louder, until a girl emerged. Her short blonde hair reached just below her jawline. Her frame was difficult to see under the brown pants and olive jacket that covered it. In her right hand was a curved scimitar, gleaming with a sort of wicked glee.

It was the female tribute from District 2. A Career tribute, born and raised for killing.

In the moment immediately after their eyes met, there was nothing but stillness. Then, coming to her senses, Mora turned and sprinted away, her heart pumping furiously. The girl from District 2 followed her, darting in between trees and shrubs. Fear flowed through every vein in Mora's body, more substantial than her very blood. Her legs bounded powerfully off the ground, carrying her faster than they ever had before. She barely noticed any sensation other than the desperate need to put as much distance between them as possible. She dared not slow herself down by looking back to see how far behind her the Career was.

Suddenly, something caught Mora's right foot. She felt her ankle pop, followed by a searing pain. She landed face first on the forest floor, but was scrambling to get up even before she hit the ground. In less than a second, she was back on her feet, limping away from the pursuing Career as quickly as she could. It was no good, however; she could only go a fraction of her normal speed. Suppressing the urge to scream, she turned around, her eyes wide and unblinking.

When the Career saw Mora standing still, she reduced her speed to a moderate run and scanned the area visually for signs of an ambush. To her surprise, she found none. She reached Mora and stood ready, her scimitar raised.

Mora had never been so afraid in her life. Her entire body trembled as she raised her pipe. The Career smirked at her fright. For a few uncomfortable moments, their gazes were locked.

Mora's mouth was as dry as sand, and her tongue felt like it was merely getting in the way as she spoke. "P-p-p-please. I just want to…" Her sentence was cut off by a scream as the girl swung the scimitar at her throat. She leapt back and stumbled on her injured ankle, falling to the ground. The scimitar cut through the air in a downward arc toward Mora's body. She deflected the blade with her pipe.

_I'm going to die! I'm going to get killed here! _Terror seized her. Her mind reached out for an image, a memory, anything to calm the tide of fear that overwhelmed her. It settled on a picture of the face she loved, the smile whose warmth she would never feel again. She could almost hear the _bum-boom_ of his heart in her left ear as the body heat radiating from his chest enveloped the left side of her face. She was going to die… and he would witness it.

Almost of its own accord, her left leg kicked out, catching the Career in the stomach and driving her back. Mora used the time she'd bought to scramble to her feet. She took a half-step forward and swung her pipe at the Career's head, but it found only air. The girl stabbed at her chest, but Mora sidestepped the blade, ignoring the pain in her ankle. For a moment, they stared each other down; then the Tribute swung the scimitar at her neck once more. Mora ducked underneath it and swung her pipe upward, driven by the strength of her left leg.

The Career stepped back, but not far enough; an impact jolted the pipe as its end connected with her chin. Dazed, she fell to the forest floor.

Mora hesitated only a second before raising the pipe over her head and bringing it down with all her might.

She immediately raised it and brought it down again, directly onto the girl's skull. Blood started to spatter her clothes as she swung down the pipe a third time, a fourth, a fifth. The girl was already unrecognizable, and most of her short blonde hair had turned pink. Mora kept dealing blow after blow, crying as she did so. A thin mist of blood, driven into the air by the impacts, had begun to settle on the front of her clothes and her face. She raised the pipe once more, only to stop and lower it again. She looked down at what remained of the girl, but her tears blurred her vision, turning everything into a sea of red.

The sound of a cannon shot in the distance reached her ears.

She turned and limped away as quickly as she could, sobbing uncontrollably. No rational thought entered her mind, only blurred impressions of pain and blood. Eventually, the stitch in her side collaborated with the pain in her ankle and the burning sensation in her lungs to force her to stop. She fell to her hands and knees and wept, bitterly and loudly, heedless of who or what might hear. Her mind had cleared just enough for her to know for a fact that somewhere, miles away, he was doing the same.


	44. Alleviation

Cirrin's world was darkness, but not just because night had fallen over the forest. His eyes were squeezed shut and his jaw clenched as he tried desperately to get the pain of his stings off his mind. They lit up his consciousness like little fireworks, burning his flesh. He found himself longing for water to immerse himself in, to cool the fires that the bees had kindled across his skin. Experimentally, he held out his arm and poured a little water from his canteen onto one of the stings. The pain diminished for a split second, but was soon back in full force. Cirrin sighed and put back the canteen.

A flash of crimson light pushed away the darkness, startling Cirrin into rising from the rock he'd been sitting on. The insignia of the Capitol had appeared on a nearby tree trunk. It faded into the face of a smiling boy with short, blond hair. The boy from District 1, Cirrin realized. Next up was a thick, powerfully built boy, the male from District 2. The girl was from District 2 was next, her blonde hair framing a determined expression. Finally came the rigid glare of the boy from District 7, and the light faded once more.

Four dead tributes, three Careers. That was highly unusual, Cirrin reflected. Careers tended not to die until the very end of the Games. That left only one Career left – assuming, of course, that the boy from District 4 wasn't a Career. Cirrin doubted that he was; he'd looked uncertain and scared in the footage from the District 4 Reaping. Besides, Careers were usually much older when they volunteered, in order to gain more preparation time. Cirrin couldn't remember seeing a Career younger than 16 compete.

As he lay down on the soft forest floor, Cirrin let his mind mull over what might have happened to the Careers, successfully distracting himself from his pain. Finally, he drifted off to sleep.

He awoke on the seventh day of the Hunger Games to the sound of wind rustling the branches above as birds chirped messages to each other. The buzz of insects was mercifully no louder than usual. He quickly gathered his things, drank a mouthful of water from his canteen, picked a direction, and walked, keeping his eyes out for the plant he needed. He left his guidebook in his pack; he had memorized what it looked like. Thankfully, his stings weren't as agonizing as they had been the previous day, although the pain was more than enough to motivate him to keep searching.

It took two hours and four misidentifications, but he finally came across a small tree with a short, thin trunk. The branches and leaves formed a round, puffy top, like a green cotton ball. Cirrin closely examined the plant and its leaves. Then he pulled out his guide book and compared them to the drawings of _Casearia sylvestris_. If he wasn't in so much pain, he might have danced. He started plucking leaves by the handful and stuffing them into one of the pockets of his backpack.

After stashing away several dozen leaves, he checked his guide book for instructions on how to prepare the leaves for insect stings. _Grind up leaves and mix with water to form paste. Apply paste directly to stings or bites._ He pulled his canteen out and shook it, then opened it and looked inside. There was only a little water left, and he was very thirsty. For a few moments, Cirrin stared at the canteen, trying to decide what to do. Eventually, he decided that while his stings were not life-threatening, dehydration was. The water was gone in two gulps.

Cirrin put back his canteen, stuffed two more handfuls of leaves into his backpack, and picked it up. He stood perfectly still, closed his eyes, and listened. Through the chatter of birds and the buzz of insects, he thought he could hear the gurgle of the stream. It was difficult to ascertain which direction the sound might have been coming from. He made a decision and set out toward the stream.

Time passed slowly, as it usually did in the Games. The half-hour that Cirrin spent wandering felt like two hours. Eventually, the faint sound of the stream became even fainter, until it was drowned out entirely. A moment of despair gripped Cirrin when he could no longer hear it; then he identified the new sound drowning it out. A moment later, he felt a raindrop on his hand. Within minutes, the rain had intensified into a powerful downpour. Cirrin gleefully drank the rainwater dripping from the leaves. He set down his canteen under one of them and put a few of the leaves on a nearby rock. With his magnifying glass, he ground them up as the rain pounded down, forming a thin paste. He scooped a little onto one of his stings and sighed as the pain was reduced to a dull ember.

In a little over an hour, Cirrin had drunk his fill and covered all of his stings with plant paste, with some leaves left over. As he sat under a tree to keep the rain from washing the paste away, he considered his next move. Getting to the stream was no longer urgent, but it was possible that he'd need to make more paste later. An unlimited supply of drinking water wouldn't hurt, either. He decided to continue heading to the stream as soon as the rain cleared up. For the moment, he lay his head back against the bark of the tree and closed his eyes, relieved that his agony had been alleviated.


	45. Degeneration

With the end of the rain, the birds and monkeys had begun to resume their piercing cries. To Mora, they sounded strangely like screams, muted and faint behind the _thunk, thunk, thunk_ of metal on bone and the lactic acid burn in her arms. Horror gripped her tightly by the throat, blocking all other sensations from reaching her consciousness. The heavy rain, which had only just ceased, had failed to evoke a reaction of any kind from her, and her clothes and hair were completely soaked.

She wandered the forest without being fully aware of what she was doing or where she was going. She tried desperately to keep her eyes open, because every time she closed them, the same image leapt to view: intermingled bits of white, grey, and red, framed by the newly-pink hair of the girl from District 2. The intervening hours had done almost nothing to diminish the impact of what she'd done, and though the downpour had washed the blood off her face, clothes, and pipe, it had fared no better than the passage of time in curing her distress.

Once more, the image of the Career's remains invaded her mind. She stopped and shook her head furiously, but couldn't clear it out of her mind. She dropped her pipe and put her palms over her eyes, whimpering. _I killed someone! A living, breathing person! I killed her!_ Her heartbeat started to quicken.

Another voice in her head offered soft reassurance. _She was going to kill me. I had no choice. If I hadn't done what I did, I'd be dead. _The image started to fade. The voice grew stronger. _Would it have been better for him to watch me die? Of course not. What I did was terrible – terrible, yes – but necessary. Because of it, I can see him again someday. _The thought of reuniting with him brought a smile to her lips. _We can see each other again and hold hands and grow old together. Because of what I did, we can grow old together. I had no choice._

_And really, it's better that I killed her._ Mora took a deep, shuddering breath. _All she lived for was killing others. If I hadn't killed her, she would have killed more people after me. That's right. It wasn't her fault, she didn't choose to be that way. But she shouldn't have been allowed to live. District 2 turned her into a monster. She didn't deserve to live. What I did was okay. No – it was good. I'm one step closer to ending this nightmare and having the life with him I always dreamed of._ Her head spun. She had stopped trembling. Her horror was beginning to fade as she went over the facts again, reaffirming her actions. She looked up at the sky, picturing future matrimonial bliss, and managed to smile.

Her gaze returned to the earth, and she picked her pipe up again. The Games weren't over, she knew. And the most dangerous opponent was still left. _The Witch. The girl from District 4. If the Career I killed didn't deserve to live, the Witch deserves to live even less. I should have killed her that first day, when I saw her betray her allies! I should have smashed her skull! I could have done it. I know that now. The Witch is the last Career left, the last serious obstacle standing between me and a life with him. _

The more she thought about it, the more her resolve grew. It had been simply naïve to just hope that all the other tributes would kill each other off. She couldn't expect to just hide in a hole and somehow win the Hunger Games. She was sure he understood that, too. For her to live, the other tributes had to die. Starting with the Witch.

Tramping through the forest, she made no attempt to conceal her tracks. A tribute without tracking experience might miss her trail, but the Witch would pick up on it easily. And when she did, Mora would be waiting. As she walked, her hands trembled slightly. The thought of fighting, of killing, was still unpleasant to her. But she would do it. For his sake, she would do it, as many times as she had to.


	46. Aggression

Mar stopped in the shade of a broad tree and scanned the area for any sights or sounds that would betray the presence of another tribute. He found only the myriad sounds of animals and the mottled waves of green plants. He leaned against the tree, unwilling to sit down in case the Witch happened to stumble across his position. He didn't trust that he would detect her presence before she had detected his.

It was either quite ironic or quite the coincidence that the very day he'd worried himself sick about the Careers, three of them had died. Ironic because he'd been worried about the high probability of running into one of them; coincidence because the one he'd been most worried about, the Witch, was the only one still alive, and now Mar wasn't sure anyone left in the Games could kill her. What if the three other Careers had banded together to get rid of their most deadly opponent, and she'd slaughtered them all? Mar could picture her walking out from behind a tree, her hair flecked with even more blood than it had been at the Reaping.

Which tributes remained? Which would be capable of killing her? Probably not the lovestruck girl from District 8, who had to be physically torn away from her beloved at her Reaping. The boy from District 12 was almost as small as Mar himself, and Mar seriously doubted that he was a highly skilled fighter. Perhaps the boy from District 10 was capable of the feat; he'd seemed calm and confident at his Reaping, given the circumstances. Plus, when Mar had run into him almost two days prior, he'd had a torch. He had obviously gotten it from the Cornucopia. Maybe he'd just been fast, or maybe he was a skilled combatant. Possibly even skilled enough to kill the Witch. The thought encouraged Mar, until another interrupted it: _If he does kill the Witch, how in the world will I be able to stop him from killing me eventually?_ He groaned.

_Come to think of it,_ Mar reflected, _it's been quite a while since I've seen or heard a trace of another tribute_. He supposed that made sense, with less than a quarter of the original 24 tributes left alive. The game was winding down, and five tributes in an area intended for 24 meant fewer accidental encounters, and therefore, fewer fights. In previous years, when the Games entered their twilight phase, the Gamemakers would step up their interference, manipulating events to drive the remaining tributes together. Tributes who had shown an aversion to fighting were especially prone to this manipulation. The Gamemakers would even sometimes attempt to drive all of the non-Careers into the Career pack at the exact same time. The ensuing bloodbath made for what the Capitol considered "good television". It just made Mar sick.

The more he thought about it, the more Mar realized he was exactly the kind of tribute who the Gamemakers would doom in that manner. He hadn't killed anyone – at least, he hoped. He took a deep breath and reassured himself that the death of the girl from District 11 had probably had nothing to do with him. He shook his head, clearing away her smile framed by short red hair. This was not a time for reflection. If he didn't do something, the Gamemakers would force him to cross paths with another tribute. And just to keep things interesting, they would probably lead him to the Witch, the other tribute from his district. Would she team up with him for the sake of District 4? Would she murder him on the spot? Tune in at 8 to find out!

Mar wanted to throw up.

Mar was too small and too scared for the Gamemakers to consider him anything but a lamb for the slaughter. The only hope he would have of avoiding their interference would be if they thought he was being aggressive, actively searching for other tributes with intent to kill. If that were the case, they'd probably turn their attention to a less aggressive tribute. Mar quickly straightened up and looked for the nearest object that could serve as a weapon. He picked up a rock twice the size of his fist and hefted it in one hand. It was heavy, but it would do. He set out through the trees with the rock, trying to look like a stalking predator, the way the Career pack had all the times he'd been forced to watch the Games. He was sure he just looked stupid.

He bent down as if examining what he thought were tracks. What would he do if he actually came across the Witch? Or, for that matter, any other tribute? He'd probably just throw the rock at them and run in the opposite direction.

Mar stood up and continued on, hoping desperately that he wouldn't meet anyone.


	47. Function

On the surface of the moist soil, an earthworm writhed pointlessly, hidden from the outside world by a leaf several times larger than its body. It continued to wriggle after Tarras's hand cleared away the leaf, failing to understand the creature that could end its life by accident.

With her right hand, Tarras brushed away a few more leaves. Her left held her sketchbook, its edges soaked by rain even through her pack. Mercifully, the drawing she'd made of a boot print had remained completely intact, as had the quick note beneath it – _Girl, District 8, lead pipe_. She compared the boot print she'd uncovered to the sketch, noting the many points where the two matched up. She was back on the trail of the girl who'd hit her and escaped on the very first day of the Games. Hopefully, the girl had grown complacent and decided to stay somewhere permanently. That would make an ambush easy and practical. And Tarras would be one step closer to ending the Games.

The more she followed it, the more obvious the trail had become. The girl clearly didn't know anything about tracking, and she clearly wasn't concerned about any other tributes who did. That would be her undoing, Tarras knew. Underestimating one's opponent came hand-in-hand with overestimating oneself, two sins of the Hunger Games that Tarras had been taught by her training not to commit.

As she crept carefully through the forest, a sudden rustle about ten yards ahead caught her attention. She instantly slipped behind a tree and peeked out cautiously. Seeing nothing, she advanced slowly, making sure to stay behind or near cover at all times. It took her a full minute to reach the source of the noise.

The jaguar, catching her scent, turned its head to look at her. The fur around its mouth was red with the blood of the lemur Tarras had ensnared. A thought entered Tarras's mind: had the Gamemakers treated it to make it more aggressive? Animals that existed naturally (as opposed to those the Capitol created) usually weren't modified for the Games. Of course, there were always exceptions, especially this late in the Games. But it hadn't attacked her the previous day.

It turned its body to face her, aligning it behind its head. Tarras stared it directly in the eyes, holding her spear ready. _Don't attack me,_ she warned it silently. _Just go on now. Don't attack me, or I'll have to kill you_. Time seemed to stretch as Tarras and the jaguar focused their gazes on each other. Then the jaguar lowered the front half of its body, almost toward the ground.

Tarras instantly backpedaled as the jaguar pounced at her, its gaping maw and wicked claws failing to reach her. Tarras quickly moved to put a sizeable tree between herself and the jaguar. She immediately realized her mistake; she had no idea whether the jaguar would come around the tree from the right or left. She pointed the blade of her spear to the left of the tree and waited for three tense seconds; then the jaguar rounded the right side of the tree, emitting a fierce roar. Reacting quickly, she jabbed it in the nose with the butt of the spear and backpedaled. The jaguar pounced again, claws extended. She ducked, and it sailed clear over her head. She spun around to face it once more.

It turned around and stopped for a moment, as if reevaluating her. She looked at its fang-filled mouth, considering the bite that could crush her skull. Could she catch it with the spear as it pounced toward her? Possibly, but it was a risky proposition; if she failed to kill it, it was almost guaranteed to kill her. Even if she did kill it, its momentum might carry it far enough along the spear for the claws to reach her, and getting injured could be a death sentence even for her.

Before she could decide on a plan, the jaguar suddenly sprinted toward her, throwing her off. She had expected it to pounce; and it did just that, but not until it was too close for Tarras to be able to use her spear efficiently. In trying to get away, she fell backward, dropping to the ground. The jaguar sailed over her once more. She quickly scrambled to her feet, abandoning the spear.

With her right hand, she drew her short sword. Her mind raced through the resources at her disposal, anything that could give her an advantage. Spear. Sword. Throwing knives. Throwing knives! She drew one with her left hand while keeping her sword raised with her right. She took a deep breath to steady herself and exhaled as she let the knife fly. It buried itself in the middle of the jaguar's thick skull, drawing a roar from its powerful throat. Tarras wasted no time. She rushed the jaguar, pushed down its head with her left hand, and plunged the sword point-first through its neck. It was dead instantly.

Exhausted, Tarras sat down to catch her breath. With the sleeve of her jacket, she wiped some excess sweat away from her forehead. As she looked over the corpse of the jaguar, she felt like moaning. It was only an animal, she knew, but the symbolism of its death mattered. She had tried deliberately to spare it, and yet she'd had to kill it anyway. She had to resist the urge to bury her head in her hands. _Is killing all I'm meant for? Is it all I was meant to do?_

She sighed. It was kind of a stupid question. Of course her purpose was killing. She had been raised from birth to kill or otherwise outlive 23 others. It was all she knew. She wondered what that meant for life after the Games.

Looking over the jaguar's body, she decided that at the very least, she couldn't let the meat go to waste. She retrieved her spear and returned the knife to its sheath, then set about the time-consuming task of butchering the jaguar.


	48. Fragmentation

Mar was already beginning to grow tired of his rock. Its odd, lumpy shape meant there was nowhere comfortable or convenient to grip it. That fact, combined with its weight, made holding it increasingly annoying. He passed it from hand to hand every now and then to alleviate the discomfort without much effect. Nevertheless, he didn't consider dropping it for a moment. For all he knew, it could be the difference between life and death for him.

He examined the sights and sounds of the forest thoroughly, hoping every second that he would find no trace of another tribute. So far, his hopes had not been in vain. Still, he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep up the charade without finding another tribute, or without the Gamemakers helping him find one. He examined the long, thin leaves of a nearby shrub, then looked at the ground as if noticing something that might be a footprint. He dropped to his knees and bent to examine the forest floor closely.

A loud bang shot through the air, causing Mar to raise his head instantly.

A tree a few yards away had become reduced to mere splinters, a pile of wood slivers, leaves, and chips of bark. Mar was getting to his feet just as a tree behind him and to his right exploded with another piercing bang, sending bits of wood flying in all directions. Mar yelped in fright. Another tree in the same direction exploded, and Mar felt a sharp pain in his upper left arm. He needed no more incentive. Dropping the now-useless rock, Mar sprinted away from the exploding trees.

Mar ran as fast as his legs could carry him, his wide-open mouth taking in huge gasps of air. Another tree exploded, then another, and another. The local wildlife were panicking; birds took to the sky above in flocks, filling the air with cries of confusion. Animals bounded away in the same direction as Mar, but he didn't bother looking at them. His heart was beating like a hummingbird's, with a speed that would impress most drummers.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Mar knew that this was what he'd feared all along. The Gamemakers had not been convinced by his pretense of aggression. They were creating excitement for themselves and the rest of the Capitol by forcing a confrontation. But a confrontation with who? To Mar, it didn't matter. He simply couldn't take his chances by assuming they wouldn't kill him with the exploding trees. Gamemakers didn't tend to take kindly to tributes opposing their will. Mar had seen the horrifying deaths of those who refused to believe the Gamemakers would kill them directly.

As Mar sprinted, a tree up ahead and slightly to his left suddenly burst, showering the area with sharp slivers of wood. Mar quickly veered to his right, narrowly avoiding another tree. By now, his pace was beginning to slow, but most of the exploding trees were still behind him. He wondered what would happen if he just collapsed. Would the Gamemakers just kill him? Would they leave him alone? Would they switch tactics and try to guide someone else to him? Regardless, he would find out soon if he had to run much longer. The lactic acid had built up in his thigh muscles, causing them to burn like a hot iron was being pressed against them from the inside. His lungs had that same burning sensation, despite him gulping down as much air as he possibly could.

He stumbled for a moment due to sheer exhaustion, not any unseen obstacles on the ground. He took a few more steps, then stumbled again and fell to his hands and knees, breathing heavily. He felt like he was going to die. The last bang of an exploding tree still rang in the air, but no new ones reached his ears. He looked around. The trees nearby were perfectly intact, and it appeared as though they would stay that way. He wanted desperately to lie down, but as his body returned, hunger and thirst reared their heads, provoked by his full-speed sprint. He could hear the gurgling of the stream, loud enough to be unmistakable. _Might as well get a good long drink_, he thought. _And maybe a bath while I'm at it. _He stood up, rested for a moment against a tree trunk, and headed toward the stream.


	49. Collision

The cool water of the stream flowed over Cirrin's lips as he turned the canteen upside-down over his open mouth. When it was empty, Cirrin leaned forward and plunged it back into the stream. When he brought it out, he dumped the water directly on his own head. He couldn't help but release a soft "Ahhhhhh…" as it cooled his overheated brain. The light reflected off the moving surface of the stream, the sounds of various animals in the treetops, and the gentle breeze had all helped him relax more than he'd been able to at any other point in the Games. His boots and socks lay to one side, and he'd rolled his pants up above the knees so he could put his feet and legs in the cool water.

Suddenly, the sound of a distant bang reverberated through the trees. Cirrin straightened up and turned around. Another bang sounded, followed closely by another. The bangs started to get louder, as if they were moving closer. Cirrin got up and put his socks on over his soaking feet, then his boots. He wasn't sure exactly what might be causing the bangs; as far as he knew, there were never explosives of any kind in the Cornucopia. Still, he was nearly certain the sounds indicated danger of some kind. He considered whether to stay put or run. He could have been wrong about the explosions getting closer. If he plunged off into the forest, he might accidentally run into their source, or another tribute entirely. As he was making up his mind, the last bang faded into echoes, then became no more.

Cirrin froze, confused and indecisive. The wrong move could get him killed – but then, so could no move at all. He stood rooted to the spot for what seemed to be ages.

He heard the soft crunch of footsteps on the forest floor before a small boy, looking even younger than him, emerged. His light brown hair was messy, and every visible inch of his skin was covered in sweat. When he caught sight of Cirrin, his eyes grew wide with fright.

For a moment, the two of them simply stared at each other, both too startled to move. Cirrin noted that he didn't have a weapon or supplies of any kind, unless he was hiding something under his jacket. But Cirrin doubted that someone so young and scared-looking would be so crafty.

"St-" Mar started, but his voice cracked. He tried again. "St-stay back!" He held out both hands as if to keep Cirrin from coming too close.

Cirrin also held out both hands, in what he hoped was a non-threatening gesture. "Keep calm. I'm not going to hurt you. What happened to you? What were those explosions?" Mar didn't reply; he just kept watching Cirrin fearfully. Experimentally, Cirrin took a step toward him.

"Stay back!" Mar shouted, taking a step back.

"Calm down," Cirrin repeated. "I'm not going to harm you. I don't want to kill anyone, okay? I don't want to. And I don't have a weapon, either. Just like you. See?" Cirrin held up the edges of his jacket, which was already unzipped, and turned in a full circle to show that he had no weapons hidden on his person. He saw Mar's eyes flicker to his pack, which was a few feet from the edge of the bank. "There's no weapons in there. Look. I'm going to go over to my pack and turn it upside down, without reaching inside it, and show you that there's no weapons."

Slowly, deliberately, he walked over to his pack. Mar watched him closely the whole time. He carefully unclipped the top flap, grabbed the bottom of his pack with both hands, and turned it over, shaking it as he did. He knelt beside the small pile and separated them as he listed them. "One magnifying glass. One plant guidebook. One blanket." He unfolded the blanket fully and showed both sides to Mar before moving on. "These plastic containers used to have meat and cheese in them. This jar had nuts. I ate them all." He showed Mar the containers and the jar. He then opened the pockets of his pack one by one. "This one's empty. This one, too. This front pocket just has a bunch of leaves. See?" He took out two fistfuls of the leaves and showed them to Mar. "You know what? I don't need these any more, anyway. Look." He took out all the leaves, dumped them on the ground, and showed Mar the now-empty pocket. "I'm completely unarmed. So unless you've got a weapon hidden, we're completely equal here."

He stood up and looked Mar over. Mar had relaxed a little, but he was still tense. "I'm going to come closer," Cirrin called out, to no response. He took a small, shuffling step forward. Mar didn't move. He took another step, then another. Slowly, with Mar's eyes following his every movement. As he got closer, he spoke. "It's best if we team up. With two sets of eyes, ears, and hands, we'll both be better off. We can gather more food, and no one can catch us unaware."

He had gotten within a few feet of Mar. He took several small steps forward, offering his right hand for a handshake.

"Okay?"


	50. Inversion

Tarras bent on one knee to examine a bush whose branches were bent and broken, presumably from a tribute walking right through it. She swatted at the insects buzzing around her head with her free hand. Moving around the bush, she saw another boot print. She didn't need to compare it to her sketch to know whose it was. She moved forward, scanning for another trace of the girl from District 8.

Absentmindedly, she slapped at a mosquito that had landed on the bare skin of her left arm. Immediately, she felt another near her elbow and slapped it, too. She was just learning how useful the jacket sleeves were for keeping insects off her arms. Earlier, while cooking some jaguar meat for lunch, she had laid down her jacket so she could better stand the heat of the fire. After filling her belly and storing the rest in her pack, she'd gone to retrieve her jacket, only for something bright and colorful to catch her eye. There, on the left sleeve of her jacket, had sat a poison dart frog. The bright purple skin on its head and torso was covered in black dots of various sizes; its electric blue limbs had no spots. Tarras knew that its skin was coated in a deadly poison, and that even touching it with bare skin could induce a coma or kill her. She had briefly considered using it to poison her throwing knives before deciding that the extra lethality wasn't worth such substantial risk. She had decided instead to carefully cut off the sleeve and go without it. After a careful inspection of the rest of her jacket, she had determined that none of it had been touched by the frog's poison. After setting out again, it hadn't taken her long to locate the trail of the girl from District 8 once more.

She was lucky that she had found the trail again so soon after the rain had come and gone. The soft mud underfoot held boot prints effectively, making it much easier to identify tracks. Tarras could have followed this trail by her tenth birthday. With an additional seven years of training and practice, tracking her quarry was extremely easy.

So easy, in fact, that Tarras allowed her mind to wander while her body followed the trail. Even with the rain, it was odd that the trail was this obvious. After all, there were a number of signs of the girl apart from boot prints – a bent shrub branch, a patch of disturbed leaf litter, a snapped stick on the ground. The last time Tarras had tracked the same tribute, the trail hadn't been nearly so apparent. She couldn't account for the difference. Perhaps before, the girl from District 8 had been careful to conceal her trail to the best of her ability; but with hunger, thirst, fatigue, and mental distress taking their toll, she was no longer thinking straight. The explanation was satisfactory, but Tarras couldn't help but feel a nagging doubt in the back of her mind.

She examined another boot print, then stood up and looked around to make sure no tributes had crept up without her realizing it. Up ahead, something strange caught her eye. Something long and very thin, with a wider bottom, was leaned up against a tree trunk. Tarras moved forward cautiously, mindful of the locations of all the cover between her and the object. When she was close enough to identify it, confusion spread through her features. She stepped into the open and walked quickly toward it.

Sure enough, the object was a tree branch. It had evidently been smashed off the very tree that it was leaned against; Tarras could see the jagged stump of the branch not far off the ground. She wondered for a moment what had caused it. It wasn't necessarily the work of a tribute; maybe the branch had already been weak, and finally broke under the weight of rainwater. Or maybe an animal had broken it by mistake. But… something felt odd. Tarras was struck with a strange sense of déjà vu, as if the branch was something she'd encountered before.

An image floated to the surface of her consciousness. Her spear stuck in the ground, point first, her pack nearby, as the boy from District 7 approached it cautiously.

By the time she realized her mistake, it was too late.


	51. Separation

Mora had been waiting patiently for several hours when the Witch came into view. Camouflaged by leaves, twigs, and dirt, hidden behind a thick bush, Mora watched silently. The Witch's left sleeve had been torn off, possibly signifying an injury somewhere that had needed binding. It was the best chance Mora would get.

A fierce battlecry tore from her throat at she broke cover and charged, her pipe raised.

By the time Tarras fully realized what was happening, Mora had closed the distance and was swinging the pipe with all her might. Wild, screaming, with dirt smeared across her face and leaves cluttering her hair, she was almost a different person from the girl who had narrowly avoided death on the first day of the Games. She was already too close for the spear to be useful. Tarras ducked the first swing and leaned out of the way of the second, stepping back to get out of range. Mora followed closely, keeping the distance between them from growing.

Tarras narrowly dodged another swing, then another. Suddenly, Mora's right foot rose and delivered a front kick to Tarras's stomach. With Mora's lack of training, it wasn't very powerful; but it was enough to disrupt Tarras's rhythm. Mora drew back the pipe for a powerful horizontal swing at her opponent's head. With no time to react, Tarras was forced to block by holding out the shaft of the spear with both hands.

The pipe smashed through the wooden shaft with a resounding crack and collided with the side of Tarras's face. If the spear hadn't absorbed most of the pipe's energy, the impact would have killed Tarras instantly. Instead, her world became a blur as she sank to her knees. She had been here before, the brink of consciousness. She knew from experience that the only way to survive was to attack and buy herself time to recover. Her right hand still held the top few inches of the broken shaft, with the blade at the end. She slashed wildly at the spot where she thought Mora was, and felt a little resistance as the blade made a shallow cut into Mora's flesh. Mora, caught off-guard by an opponent she thought as good as dead, jumped back, out of range.

Tarras stood, pointing the spear blade at Mora and dropping the broken shaft. Her legs felt weak, and she couldn't help but wobble as her sense of balance began to return to normal. Pain screamed through the left side of her face. She didn't let it show, but wore a determined look. Mora, unaffected by her opponent's confident demeanor, glared back with an almost wild fury. As Tarras's mind recovered from the impact she had sustained, she came to her senses and remembered her short sword. She passed the spear blade to her left hand and quickly drew the sword with her right. The two circled each other, eyes locked. Inwardly, Tarras was unnerved by Mora's speed. Her reach advantage had been nullified, and for the first time during the Games, she wondered if her training was enough.

Mora started to come forward with a forceful yell, but a stab of Tarras's sword convinced her to back down. Compared to Tarras, her mind was calm and focused. She looked for an opening, but no opportunities stuck out to her. Just as she decided to try another attack, Tarras moved. Her left hand drew back and flung the spear blade at Mora. It tumbled through the air slowly and clumsily, and dodging it was not difficult. As Mora sidestepped it, Tarras backed away, crouching low to the ground, reaching down with her now-free left hand. Mora charged, readying her pipe for another swing. Tarras quickly stood and thrust the jagged, broken edge of the spear shaft into her face.

The many little points of the shattered wood pierced Mora's right eye, causing an anguished cry to escape her lips. She backed away, her right hand rising to cover her bleeding, now-useless eye. Instinct took over, and she turned her back to Tarras. Tarras moved to close the distance, sensing the kill, but Mora ran, prompting her to chase her opponent. When Mora realized how closely Tarras was following her, she suddenly stopped and swung her pipe as she turned, narrowly missing Tarras's face. Tarras stabbed with her blade, but Mora sidestepped it. Tarras followed up with another jab of the broken shaft. Mora smacked it away with her pipe.

The opening Tarras had been waiting for showed itself. She plunged her blade through Mora's stomach.

Mora stumbled back a step. She looked down in disbelief at the blade, nearly hilt-deep in her flesh. She looked back up at Tarras, the same stunned look on her face. Then, still clutching her pipe, she turned and ran as quickly as she could. Thinking quickly, Tarras drew her throwing knives and sunk them into Mora's retreating back, one by one. Mora didn't appear to notice. Tarras let her go; after all, with her wounds, she could only get so far. Tarras looked around to locate her pack before realizing she had never tossed it aside; it had been on her back the whole time, slowing her down. With a sigh, she dropped the broken shaft and walked in the direction that she'd seen Mora go.

Mora felt incredibly weak, but she drew out every last ounce of strength to carry her farther away from The Witch. Hot blood ran down her torso and soaked both the front and back of her brown pants; it started to make its way down her furiously-pumping legs. Every movement elicited pain in the knife wounds in her back, but she kept going. At last, what seemed to be her last iota of energy ebbed away from her, and she collapsed onto her hands and knees, her face wet with tears.

With her right hand, she reached up and plucked the three knives out of her flesh one by one. Then she sat on the ground and looked down at the hilt of the blade in her stomach. With both hands, she slowly drew it out. She set it aside and stared down at the gaping hole in her torso, watching as the life flowed from her. Already, she could feel her senses numbing, and a heavy mist seemed to weigh down her thoughts. She closed her good eye for a moment to rest.

Tarras found her moments later. Mora seemed to be dead, but no cannon had sounded. As Tarras stepped into the open, Mora's head turned toward her. Both her eyes were closed, and the right side of her face was covered in blood from her eye. Her mouth opened slightly, and for a moment, all was still. She spoke a single word, one Tarras didn't recognize: "Jerall?" A name.

Then Mora's left eye fluttered open and focused on Tarras. "Oh… it's you."

For reasons she couldn't explain, the words sent chills down Tarras's spine. Mora took a deep, ragged breath. Her voice was quiet and rough. "Tell Jerall… I love him, and I'm sorry. Tell him… t-tell…"

Her left eye started to close. It flew open in a moment of last resistance; finally, the eyelid slowly shut. The rolling boom of a cannon went off in the distance.

Tarras was finding it extremely difficult to maintain her stoic outward demeanor. She had no idea why now, of all times, in front of this girl whose face was covered in dirt and blood, she was so close to breaking down. She knew she couldn't remain near the corpse much longer. The cameras were watching. She retrieved her knives and strode away through the underbrush, fighting every urge to turn and take one last look at the girl from District 8.


	52. Collaboration

"Hey Mar, come here! I found some of those berries I told you about!"

Nearby, the song of the stream rushed as Mar kept watch over Cirrin's things. Cirrin had gone off with his plant guide to find edible plants. Both of them had been hungry when they met, and neither of them had had any food. It hadn't been hard to designate food as their top priority after teaming up.

"Should I bring your pack?" Mar called out.

"Nah, just leave it. It won't be long. Come on, these things are delicious!"

Mar took one last look around, then set out through the forest toward Cirrin's voice. He found Cirrin crouched beside a bush, plucking off berries and popping them into his mouth. "Come on!" he said around a mouthful of berries. Mar needed no second encouragement. He plucked a salmonberry and briefly examined it before popping it in his mouth. The cool juice spread over his tongue, filling his mouth with its delicious, sweet taste.

Cirrin had swallowed his berries and was watching Mar expectantly, a faint smile on his face. "Well?" he asked.

"It's the first delicious thing I've eaten in the Games," Mar breathed. Cirrin's grin grew wider. Together, they eagerly stripped the bush of all the ripe berries it held, devouring them with a speed and enthusiasm that would have mortified their mothers.

When they had eaten every berry they thought was ripe, and a few more besides, Cirrin stood up and wiped the juice from his mouth with the back of his hand. He half-turned away, motioning for Mar to follow him. "Come on, let's go back to the stream. My stuff's still there." He noticed Mar's faraway stare, shooting off into the trees, and turned back toward him. "What's wrong?"

Mar was silent for a moment. Without looking at Cirrin, he asked, "Do you think we'll ever eat anything that delicious again?"

Cirrin put his hands in his jacket pockets. "Don't talk like that. Come on, let's stick close to the stream. We'll have all the water we'll ever need, and an escape route in case someone finds us. Let's go."

"How much longer can we survive?"

Mar's blunt question jarred Cirrin. Two ominous truths loomed over both of them: one, that the Witch was still out there, and was far more capable of victory than they were; and two, that even if she died somehow, there could not be two winners. At least one of them would have to die as well.

"Don't talk like that," Cirrin repeated calmly. "We need to focus on the here and now. Let's go back to the stream." Silently, Mar got up and followed Cirrin back to the spot where his pack lay. A cold atmosphere seemed to hover over them the entire time they walked. Neither uttered a sound, allowing the background noise of the forest to dominate their ears.

They reached the stream after about a minute of walking. Cirrin's pack lay where Mar left it, undisturbed. Just to be sure, Cirrin checked its contents and found nothing missing. The icy silence was starting to suffocate him. To get both their minds off the subject of their mortality, he called, "Hey Mar, you're from District 4, right? Do you know how to make fishing rods? We won't live off berries forever. And I don't know about you, but I'm still hungry."

At the mention of fishing rods, Mar's face lit up, and he turned to Cirrin with a broad grin. "We don't need them! Help me find some bait, like a worm or something." Together, the two of them scoured the earth for something fish would eat. It didn't take Mar long to find a wriggling earthworm. "Found a worm! Here, watch this." He moved upstream until he found a relatively shallow area. While one hand gripped the worm loosely, the other took off his boots and socks and rolled up his pants. He walked into the water until it was about knee-deep; then he put the worm in between the fingers of his right hand and plunged it into the water. Cirrin watched him curiously from the bank.

For about two minutes, Mar concentrated intently on the water while Cirrin looked on. "Wait for it," Mar said quietly. "Wait for it… Now!" Suddenly, his hand burst out from under the stream, sending water flying into the air. A small fish landed on the bank and flopped uselessly.

Cirrin raised his eyebrows. "Wow," he said. "Well done, Mar."

Mar grinned at him. "Thanks. I can do that as long as we have bait, so we won't have to worry about food."

"Is that how you've survived this long?"

"Nah. I actually didn't remember it until just now," he said sheepishly. "I don't know, I guess I've been so scared this whole time, it just slipped my mind."

Cirrin gazed down at the writhing fish. "Well, now what?"

Mar looked at the fish, too. "In District 4, when we didn't have time to cook fish, we'd just eat them raw. It's perfectly healthy."

The look on Cirrin's face made it clear that he wasn't too thrilled by the idea. "Let's cook it, at least. Seeing how few tributes are left, making a fire can't be that dangerous anymore." With that, the two of them set their minds to the task of gathering firewood and preparing the fish, temporarily shutting out the dangers that surrounded them.


	53. Immolation

The last cries of diurnal birds rang through the air, growing quieter by the minute. All around Tarras, daylight slowly gave way to the encapsulating darkness, fighting a valiant but ultimately futile battle against its eternal adversary. It was becoming more and more difficult to see as the light that managed to pierce the thick canopy grew weaker. Normally, Tarras would have been setting up her camp for the night at that time. However, she trudged on through the forest, squinting at the underbrush to make out signs of another tribute. She just wanted to be done with the Games as quickly as possible, and she was willing to sacrifice a night of sleep to do so.

She had found the trial of another tribute about two hours after killing Mora. She didn't recognize the bootprint, but her impatience prevented her from sketching it; instead, she did her best to commit the pattern to memory and continued following the trail. As far as she could tell, her prey hadn't passed through very long ago. If she was lucky, he (all three remaining tributes other than Tarras were male) had already stopped for the night, and she would catch him sleeping. For that reason, she tried to balance her speed with stealth, being careful not to make any unnecessary noise.

Up ahead, her attentive ears picked up a faint sound. Tarras looked in the direction she thought it was coming from, and a distant, dim light reached her, bouncing off the trees. Carefully, she crept closer. The sound was unmistakable now: the crunching and swishing of something stepping through the underbrush. Tarras quickly judged the moderate wind blowing through the forest; she was upwind of the source of the noise, meaning that if it were an animal, it would have caught her scent and fled already.

When she came within view of the tribute, she was momentarily stunned by what she saw. Several small fires burned nearby bushes and branches, casting their flickering orange flame across the body of the boy from District 10. He held a lit torch in his hand, which was extended toward a low-hanging branch. He removed the torch for a moment to see if the branch had caught fire; when he saw that it had, he turned to find another plant to burn. He caught sight of Tarras, and for a moment when their eyes met, all was still. Then he smiled.

"A-ha. I was wondering when you'd show up," he called out nonchalantly as he turned to put his torch next to a bush. Her eyes wide, Tarras took in his relaxed posture, the spreading flames, the spent matches on the forest floor. "It doesn't matter now. I'm not going to win the Games this year. That much is clear to me now. But then I thought, why should _anyone_ be allowed to win?" Having successfully lit the bush on fire, he turned to a nearby tree. "It's really lucky that I got this torch from the Cornucopia way back on the first day. Do you get what's going on, Witch? This year, the Hunger Games zone won't be a vacation spot for rich, soulless pigs in the Capitol. There won't be a winner for them to cheer for. Do you understand? I may not win the Games, but none of them will ever forget me!"

As he spoke, Tarras eyed the fires and considered killing him and attempting to put them out. It didn't take her long to throw the idea out. There were too many fires, and by then, they were too big. Even if she had the large quantity of water needed to put them out, they would likely spread more quickly than she could quench them. As she reached this conclusion, the fires started to advance toward her, quickly consuming the decayed plant matter on the forest floor. She took a small step backwards, then another. Then, her final decision made, she turned and started sprinting in the other direction. The ringing laughter of the boy from District 10 barely registered over the growing roar of the flames.

She knew the fire would accelerate, eventually spreading faster than she could run. On smooth, flat terrain, she could outrun a fire, but not while having to dart through trees. The smell of smoke was already saturating the air. She tried to think as she ran. How could she escape? Where could she go? The blaze would eventually consume the entire zone. No, that was wrong. It wouldn't cross the stream. In her mind's eye, she brought up a mental map of the area and her approximate place on it. She turned slightly to her right and kept running, wondering if she was close enough to the stream to cross it in time.

As she ran, she barely noticed the droplets hitting her periodically until they grew to a steady pound. The rain was falling hard upon the forest within minutes. Tarras slowed down and looked behind her; the fire was still going, but had undoubtedly slowed. It would be out completely soon. She slowed to a stop and bent over, hands on her knees, taking in huge gulps of air. Her legs, lungs, and abdomen burned with lactic acid.

Almost directly in front of her, the trunk of a tree suddenly blazed with crimson light as the symbol of Panem appeared.


	54. Solution

Mar and Cirrin stood rooted to the spot, eyes fixed on a nearby tree trunk where the symbol of Panem glowed. A small piece of cooked fish fell from Mar's hand, forgotten. The symbol faded into the face of the girl from District 8; a brave attempt at composure was betrayed by the fear in her eyes. Next came the boy from District 10, staring out at them like he didn't know what to do. His face faded and the light retreated, allowing darkness to reestablish its icy hold on the forest.

For a few moments, both Mar and Cirrin were utterly silent. Mar's brain worked furiously, confirming and re-confirming what he dreaded. His hands rose to grab his temples. "No," he breathed softly. "Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no." He sank to his knees and put his forehead to the ground. Suddenly, a scream erupted from his lips, muffled partially by the grass. He took a deep breath and screamed again. Startled, Cirrin went over to him and put his hand on Mar's shoulder.

"Mar, calm down," he pleaded. "It's gonna be all right."

"What are we gonna do?" Mar raised his head and looked at Cirrin. Cirrin could tell even in the dim moonlight that Mar's eyes were starting to cloud with tears. "What are we gonna do?" he repeated. "It's just us and the Witch left. She's gonna find us and kill us!"

"Calm down," Cirrin repeated firmly, but he was ignored.

"I knew I shouldn't have just hoped someone else would kill her. I – one of my friends told me before the Games that I had to kill her, before she killed me. I should have listened! I should have gone after her! Now she's gonna hunt us down, and kill us like – like animals! What are we gonna do? We – we – we can't outrun her, we can't outfight her, we – we can't outlast her, we can't do anything! How are we going to survive? How are-"

"CALM DOWN!" Cirrin shouted, inches from Mar's face. Mar opened his mouth, made no sound, and closed it again. Cirrin took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. But we need to stay calm. If we panic, we might as well be dead already. Okay? We're gonna be all right. We're together now, you hear me? There's two of us, and only one of her."

"Two's not enough, two's not…" Mar began to mutter.

Cirrin cut him off. "Two is enough. Listen to me. We will survive this. But not if we don't get any sleep. Even the Witch has got to sleep sometimes. I bet she's asleep right now somewhere. Take a deep breath. In… and out. In… out. Okay. Let's get some sleep. Here, you can have the blanket tonight. I don't need it, I'm plenty warm."

Cirrin retrieved his soaked blanket and handed it to Mar. Mar had regained his composure, but the look on his face made it clear that he wasn't entirely convinced by Cirrin's assessment. Together, they lay down on the damp grass. They'd managed to stay relatively dry despite the rain by seeking shelter under a nearby tree, but there was no helping getting wet that night.

Even accounting for that discomfort, Mar found it extraordinarily difficult to sleep. He couldn't help but feel that the Witch would turn up and slit their throats the moment he closed his eyes. When the rain started again a little after midnight, Mar gave up on sleeping. He lay there, feeling the steady beating of little raindrops against his flesh, picturing what the Witch would do to him and Cirrin when she found them.

When sunlight finally started to beam down in full force once more, Mar decided to get up. He stood and stretched, then walked around the area a few times, always staying within sight of Cirrin. After almost half an hour, Cirrin woke up as well. He yawned and stretched both arms to the sky. "How'd you sleep?" he called out to Mar. Mar pretended not to hear him.

Cirrin stood up and walked closer to Mar. "Let's get started on breakfast. You catch another fish or two while I go find some plants we can eat. I don't know if there are any more salmonberries nearby, but I'm sure I can find something."

Mar noted how calm and even his voice was. As Cirrin walked away, Mar called over his shoulder, "Hey, Cirrin."

Cirrin stopped and turned around. "Yeah?"

Mar turned to fully face him. "Um…" He struggled with how to word his question, but decided to just come out and say it. "How come you're not afraid to die?" The question hung heavily in the air.

For a few moments, Cirrin was silent. Then he answered, "Back on the first day, when we were being beamed down here – remember? Well, while I was being beamed down, I… I took a minute to close my eyes and accept that I was going to die." He wanted to say something else, something to console Mar. He could think of nothing. Instead, he turned around, retrieved his plant guide, and walked off into the forest.


	55. Convulsion

It was early afternoon in the forest. Mar could tell because the sun was almost directly overhead, sending its bright rays shooting down into the forest. It hurt his eyes to look up at it, even with the lush green canopy blocking much of the light. He returned his gaze to the world around him and blinked as his eyes adjusted. Somewhere, a group of birds released their high-pitched cries that reverberated through the trees.

"I was eleven back then," Cirrin was saying. "I had to work, and there wasn't anywhere to work but the mines. It's not so bad, when you get used to it. All the adults treated me like I was an adult, too. They gave me tips and stuff on how to mine. Most of them had been at it since my age."

"Is it hard to breathe down there?"

"Sort of. Not really. I don't know, maybe it's just in my head, but when I'm in the mines, I feel… felt as if the air was thinner. Like it wasn't enough."

Mar contemplated Cirrin's answer. "Was it dangerous?"

"Not really," Cirrin replied. "In the time I worked there, no…"

"What was that?" Mar's head swiveled in the direction of a low snapping sound he'd heard.

"It's just another animal, Mar. That's the fourth time today," Cirrin reassured him coolly. He followed Mar's gaze to the source of the noise.

Tarras stood there, staring back at Mar.

Cirrin was on his feet in less than a second. "Run, Mar!" he shouted, as he charged toward Tarras. Mar needed no second warning; he stood up and sprinted through the trees as quickly as his small legs could carry him.

Tarras grabbed the hilt of her short sword with her right hand, but before she could draw it, Cirrin latched on to her arm with all his might. With one hand, he grabbed her wrist, keeping her from drawing the weapon. She curled her left hand into a fist and punched him once, twice, three times. Pain shot through her hand with every impact of knuckles on skull, forcing her to stop. Instead, she grabbed his left shoulder and drove her forearm into his throat, forcing him back. When he was far enough, she used a front kick to push him away. The sword slid out of its sheath with a menacing hiss. She lunged toward Cirrin, stabbing at his midsection.

_React._

Cirrin leapt to his left, avoiding the blade. She tried stabbing again, but he backpedaled out of range. Crouching low, he looked around for Mar before diving out of the way of another stab. Satisfied that Mar was far enough away to escape, he used his arms to push himself up into a runner's stance and immediately took off in the direction of the stream. Tarras followed closely behind, quickly closing the gap.

Before she could catch up, he reached the stream and dove in headfirst. He knew she wouldn't follow; she had set down her pack before sneaking up on him and Mar, and Cirrin knew she wouldn't abandon it so easily. Cirrin paddled through the water with his arms and legs, wishing desperately he had taken swimming lessons back in District 12.

He heard a heavy splash behind him as Tarras dove into the water.

With large, seemingly effortless strokes, she closed the gap in mere seconds. With one hand, she grabbed Cirrin's hair and forced his head underwater. He flailed about uselessly for a few seconds, panicking. Then he grabbed one of Tarras's thighs and sunk his nails into it. She gritted her teeth, but the pain was too much to ignore; she let go of him and used both hands to pry his hand away, and his head broke the surface.

The stream carried them along as they grappled in the water, Cirrin trying desperately to keep his head above water while Tarras did the opposite. As Cirrin reached to claw at her eyes, something hard hit his lower back, causing him to cry out in pain. Another attempt to drown him quickly followed, which he thwarted by swimming farther underwater and away before resurfacing. He caught a glimpse of a few more rocks ahead, jutting out of the stream. He didn't have long before Tarras was upon him again. She had discarded her jacket before diving into the stream, but he grabbed the front of her shirt with one hand and paddled with the other, trying to propel the two of them to the left.

Tarras tried to grab Cirrin's free wrist, prompting him to pull it away, then try to control Tarras's wrist. When she pulled it away, he reached behind her head and grabbed her hair, above her braid. He then half turned and guided her head directly into a rock.

For a moment, Tarras's field of vision was covered in faint, phantom lights. Cirrin latched onto the rock with his other hand and slammed Tarras's head against the rock again. He did it again with all the strength he could muster. Tarras was slipping in and out of consciousness. She was just aware enough to know that a few more hits would render her unconscious. Blood was oozing from her forehead quickly, already flowing down her face. Her head slammed into the rock again, leaving a blood smear on its surface. She quickly put one hand on the rock and pushed against it as hard as she could; Cirrin struggled to force her head into the rock again. With her free hand, Tarras grabbed her braid near the end. It felt much heavier than usual, even considering that it was soaked with water.

As Cirrin fought her strength with strength, she looped the braid around his neck.

Her head was forced close to his as she pulled the braid. Pain enveloped a section of her scalp, like it was on fire, but she didn't let up. With her ear so close to his mouth, she could easily hear his violent, futile gasps. His entire body convulsed wildly in an attempt to escape, splashing water over both of them. After about eight seconds, his muscles relaxed, and his body became inert. Tarras still didn't release him.

Seconds became minutes that felt like hours. Four of them had passed by when a cannon shot finally boomed in the distance. Tarras released her braid and let the current carry away Cirrin's corpse as she clung to the rock.


	56. Determination

Noon on day nine of the Hunger Games. It had been nearly 24 hours since Cirrin's death.

Mar had seen his death on the previous night's broadcast, and suddenly, he was alone with the Witch. Over the course of the past eight days, twenty-two young lives had ended suddenly and, in most cases, violently. And for what? Mar didn't know. He didn't think he ever would, either.

Mar sat in a desolate, charred wasteland. Part of the forest had been destroyed by fire; he had no clue how or why, but given the much more terrible destruction that had taken place in that forest, it seemed appropriate. His feet rested in a pile of cold, wet ash, and his back was against a thin, blackened stalk that had once been the sturdy trunk of a large tree. Now, however, it felt as though it could crumble at any moment. Mercifully, the smell of burnt wood had been washed away by the rain; otherwise, it would have overwhelmed Mar.

Mar's eyes were closed. He tried to picture what would happen when he died. What came after death? He had no way of knowing. He took a deep breath. It was going to happen. Whatever would happen, would happen. It was set in stone. He, Mar Sessen, would die that day in the Hunger Games. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and tried to convince himself on every level of his being that his impending death was a fact. _My name is Mar Sessen. I will die today. I've lived a good life. I will die today. Have I left the world a better place? Have I left anything to remember me by, an example or even just a smile? My name is Mar Sessen, and I will die today. No, I'm already dead._

Mar's thoughts drifted back to his family, his parents. They had told him, many years ago, that in their native language, his name meant "sea".

"We named you 'sea' because our love is like the sea: everyone can see the surface, but it holds much more than what everyone sees. Its depths are filled with untold wonders and beauty. You are like that too, Mar. When people look at you, they don't see the wonders that we see, because they only see the surface. But you are truly a wonderful boy."

A thought suddenly floated through Mar's head. It anchored itself in his mind and expanded, suddenly and quickly. _Are other people like that, too?_ He considered all the people he'd met in the Games, and all the people he hadn't met, the ones whose faces he'd seen projected onto tree trunks. All of them had distinct personalities, hopes, fears, questions, answers; all of them had obstacles they'd overcome, ones they hadn't, and the lessons learned from both; all of them were distinctly, undeniably _human_, and each of them had an incredible story to tell. Twenty-two of those stories ended in a dark rainforest, far from home.

Even the Witch was human. Even she thought and felt the same way Mar did. _Come to think of it, I don't even know her real name,_ Mar realized. _I should ask her before she kills me._ He thought about the girl with the short red hair, from District 11. When she'd offered him kindness, he'd shoved her and run away. He would most likely never know her name, he realized. He pictured her photo in the projection of deaths and hoped desperately that she hadn't died because of him. Hers was another story he wished he could hear, just once.

His story, too, would soon be lost. Surprisingly, that thought no longer sent a chill down Mar's spine. He smiled grimly to himself. Still, he would fight his hardest. He owed it to his family, his friends, and himself to try to win the Games, struggling fearlessly until his final moment. He wondered what to tell them, in this dire situation. He knew that back in District 4, they were glued to the television screen, watching him. He took a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak.

"COOOOOOOOONGRATULATIONS!"

Startled, Mar flinched. The cheerful male voice seemed to be coming from all directions. It spoke again. "The only two tributes left are from District 4, guaranteeing the people of that District a year's worth of food and supplies! Congratulations to District 4, and congratulations to our two remaining tributes! We're all so proud of you two! To celebrate, we're throwing a FEAST on the western edge of the Hunger Games zone! Go ahead, eat up! You've earned it!"

The voice echoed through the trees, slowly fading into nonexistence. A feast. A table laid out with delicious gourmet foods from the Capitol and supplies for the remaining tributes. The thought of it made Mar sick. It disgusted him to even imagine eating expensive food after all the death that had happened. He stood, but he wasn't headed for the western edge of the arena. He had another destination in mind; and he was sure that that was where the Witch would go, too.

* * *

**Author's note: Stay tuned for the final chapter in Severed From the Sky, coming this Thursday!**


	57. Conclusion

Tarras stepped carefully through the weapons and supplies strewn along the ground. She remembered seeing many of them on the first day of the Games; she had quickly scanned the supplies she could see, choosing the most useful items and leaving the rest. Light brown blood stains spattered some areas from the tributes that had been killed in the initial melee. The bodies were always removed by the Capitol shortly after death, but the blood stains were left, perhaps as a marker or memorial.

Looking up, Tarras saw something huge and golden between the trees. She moved around them, being careful not to step on anything with a blade. Finally, she reached the center of the Cornucopia: the huge golden horn, its 20-foot maw filled with weapons and supplies. The vast majority of them would never be used. She stroked the gleaming gold with her finger, marveling at how cold it was to the touch despite the afternoon heat. Slowly, she walked around the statue, passing the hollow opening.

There sat Mar, staring down at the ground. He looked up at her when she came within view. He was surprised at how vulnerable, how _human_ she looked. No jacket, no pack filled with supplies, a gaping cut on the right side of her forehead, her left cheek swollen and bruised. "There you are," he said calmly as he stood. "I've been waiting here quite a while. For a moment, I wondered if you'd gone to the feast. But no. It has to end like this, here. We both know that." Tarras was stunned by how collected he was, though she didn't dare show it. "I realized earlier today that I don't know your name. I don't want to die knowing you only as the Witch. I'm Mar Sessen. What's your name?"

_He thinks he's going to die, but he came here anyway?_ Tarras didn't display her confusion. She merely said, "Tarras Esmer."

"Tarras… Esmer. Well, it's nice to meet you, Tarras. I…" He hesitated. "Would you, by any chance, know what happened to the girl from District 11? The one with the short red hair? How she died, her name, anything?" Tarras slowly shook her head. He sighed. "Oh well. I don't know what I was expecting. I guess it hardly matters now, does it? This is a matter of life and death. _Our_ life and death." He walked over to a polished quarterstaff that lay on the ground and picked it up. "Shall we begin?"

Their eyes locked. Tarras drew her short sword and raised it, ready to strike. A few moments of tense silence passed. Then Mar stepped forward and swung the end of the staff at Tarras's head with a loud cry. She ducked it, then leaned out of the way of Mar's second swing. The wood was too thick and too polished to simply cut through, she knew; and if the staff actually hit her, it could do some serious damage.

Mar thrust the end of the staff at Tarras's stomach; she half-turned, barely avoiding it. Before he could pull it back, she grabbed the end with her free hand and pulled. Mar let go to keep from being pulled right into Tarras's sword. Tarras tossed aside the staff and advanced. With no time to think, Mar bent down, picked up the nearest object, and threw it at Tarras. She smacked it aside with one hand, and the cap broke off, spilling antibiotic pills all over the ground. By the time she refocused on Mar, he was standing with a war axe in his right hand. The two of them circled each other.

Tarras held out her sword with her right hand and let her left slowly, carefully drop toward her throwing knives. With a sudden movement, she threw one at Mar's chest, sacrificing accuracy for speed. The knife flew to Mar's left, but it startled him enough to create an opening. She lunged. To her surprise, instead of moving backward or staying still, he charged as well, swinging the axe at her head. She ducked and tried to thrust her sword, but he grabbed her right wrist with his free hand; she responded by doing the same. She launched her knee into Mar's stomach, then into his arm, jarring him enough to make him drop the axe. Immediately, he twisted his arm out of her grip, reached over, and pried at the fingers of her right hand, forcing her to drop the sword. With both hands she shoved him away and bent down to retrieve her sword.

Before she could grab it, Mar tackled her, and both of them ended up on the ground. Mar didn't understand what was going on, but when the sky and the ground stopped trading places, he was on his back and Tarras was sitting on his chest, raining down punches. He blocked with his arms, protecting himself from the worst of the damage. Spotting a weapon, Tarras reached above Mar's head and to his right. Mar planted his feet on the ground and raised his hips, bucking her off of him. He got to his knees and stood up, avoiding a vicious up kick by Tarras. He backed away and scanned the ground for weapons. He saw a flail: a wooden rod covered in short metal spikes, connected by a short chain to a longer wooden rod that served as a handle. As he picked it up, Tarras rose back to her feet. She was holding a steel meat mallet.

Unsure about how to use his weapon, Mar experimentally swung it in the space between them. He swung it again, keeping Tarras back. _She'll have to close the distance. She'll use a throwing knife to do it. _Sure enough, Tarras reached for her throwing knives again. Mar swung the flail above his head and in an arc toward her left arm. She jumped back, drawing a knife as she did so. Mar leapt forward and swung at her hand as it whipped back to throw. Tarras felt a jolt travel through her hand as the end of the flail connected with the blade of the knife, tearing it from her grasp.

Instead of backing farther away, she closed the distance, grabbed the shaft of the flail with her left hand, and swung the mallet at Mar's head. He let go of the flail and ducked out of the way. Tarras dropped the mallet and gripped the shaft with both hands, swinging the flail deftly in the air. Mar looked to his left and suddenly saw something leaned against the golden horn: a wooden bow, sitting beside a quiver of arrows. He quickly ran over to it, snatched up the bow and an arrow, and turned around. Smoothly, he nocked an arrow and pulled it back as far as he could. It was surprisingly difficult. For a moment, he could see shock on Tarras's face. _He knows how to use a bow?! _she thought. Mar tried to pull the arrow back a little farther, then released it.

It buried itself point-first in the ground, about two-thirds of the distance between them.

Wasting no time, Tarras charged, lifting the flail for a mighty downward swing. Instinctively, Mar held up the bow to block it. The end of the flail crashed down on the middle of the bow, smashing it in two. For a split second, Mar stared blankly at the broken bow. Then he rushed Tarras, wrapping the bowstring around her neck. She pulled at it with one hand, but it didn't budge from her throat; she dropped the flail and desperately clawed at the string with both hands. As he strangled her, Mar started pulling her back, closer to the golden horn and away from the flail. The noises escaping Tarras's throat reminded her of Cirrin's death the previous day.

As the world began to fade to black, Tarras reached behind her, near her lower back. She drew the survival knife tucked into her belt and swiftly cut both ends of the string away. Mar stumbled backward, caught off-guard. She charged.

She'd discovered something earlier that day, on the way to the Cornucopia: when the Capitol removed bodies from the arena, if they still had a weapon on or in them, the weapon was removed and left behind. And so she'd found a survival knife, sitting on the forest floor in a pool of coagulated blood. A much larger pool was nearby, at the base of a tree. When Cirrin had picked up the knife from the Cornucopia on the first day of the Games, he hadn't really intended to kill anyone with it. It was ironic, then, that during the nine days of the Games, that knife claimed three lives.

The knife slid into Mar's stomach and out, again, again, again, again. Each stab felt like fire. Mar stumbled backward, dropping the shattered remains of the bow, and fell onto his backside against the golden horn at the center of the Cornucopia. He looked down at his shirt, which was torn in five places and starting to darken with blood. Blood began to run down his torso, over the sides to his back, all over him. He looked at his wounds with a blank stare. No fear, shock, anger, or even relief registered on his face. Nothing registered on his face.

He looked up at Tarras, who stood frozen, the blood-drenched knife in her hand. For a few moments, he held that blank look. Then he smiled. "I knew it," he said. His voice was weak and quiet. "I knew it… It's all right, I don't hate you. And you don't hate me either, do you? No. This is just... how it is, I guess." He fell silent for a few moments. Their eyes were locked. Neither of them moved.

"Well… aren't you going to finish me off?" he asked expectantly. Tarras tried to will herself to step forward, but nothing happened. Images flashed before her eyes: the four Avoxes that she'd been forced to kill in training. The boy from District 6 and the girl from District 1. The girl from District 5. The girl from District 10. The boy from District 7. The love-struck girl from District 8. The small black-haired boy from District 12. And now Mar, the boy from her own District 4, lay bleeding.

The bloodied knife slid from her fingers. She took an involuntary step back. Her whole body was shaking.

For a second, Mar looked at her in stunned disbelief. Then he grinned. "Unbelievable. I did it. I killed the Witch." He tilted his head back and looked up at the sky, that wide grin still spread across his face.

The low boom of a cannon sounded in the distance.

* * *

For her victory in the Hunger Games, Tarras received, among other things, a lifetime supply of food and fresh water, a generous monthly allowance, and a luxurious four-story mansion, where she was found dead nearly a year later.

Though she left that forest far behind, it always remained with her. Nothing she ate tasted right; nothing looked or sounded quite the same as it had before the Games. When someone asked her to return to the Hunger Games zone as a tour guide for some vacationing Capitol citizens, she nearly vomited.

Throughout her final days, one moment returned to haunt her, over and over again, in hours both waking and asleep. It was the moment between the boom of that final cannon and the Capitol's cheerful announcement congratulating her, the winner. That moment when she stared down at Mar's fresh corpse and she was engulfed by emptiness, loneliness. But what struck her most was that at that moment, there was no noise. No birds sending their songs skyward, no monkeys emitting their harsh screeches, no buzz of insects, no rustle of wind through branches. There was nothing in that moment but silence.

That horrifying, suffocating silence.

**THE END**


End file.
